
Class \ . o Q 2^^" 

Book ____JS_ 

Copyiight^° :, 



CQP»RIGHT DEPastr. 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

ESSAYS 

NOT THAT IT MATTERS 
IF I MAY 

FICTION 

THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY 
E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 



THE SUNNY SIDE 



BY 

AY A. MILNE 

Author of " If I May," " The Dover Road,' 
"Mr. Pirn Passes By," etc. 




New York 
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

68X Fifth Avenxjb 

cM^ c;; oi J 



Copyright, 1922, 
By E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 



All rights reserved 



THIS EDITION IS LIMITED 
TO 1500 COPIES 



Printed in the United States of America 

OCT 30 '22 

©CI.A6b6541 
^9 I 



TO 

OWEN SEAIVIAN 

AFFECTIONATELY 

IN MEMORY OF 

NINE HAPPY YEARS 

AT THE "PUNCH" OFFICE 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDI- 
TION ix 

I. ORANGES AND LEMONS _ - - 3 

II. MEN OF LETTERS _ _ - - 39 

III. SUMMER DAYS - - - - - 81 

IV. WAR-TIME 117 

V. HOME NOTES 183 

VI. A FEW GUESTS - - - - - 241 

VII. AND OTHERS ----- 283 



INTRODUCTION 

My publisher wants me to apologize for — 
"introduce" was the kindly word he used — this 
collection of articles and verses from Punch. I 
do so with pleasure. 

Among the many interests of a long and varied 
career — 

No, I don't think I shall begin like that. 

It was early in 1871 — 

Nor like that. 

Really it is very diflBcult, you know. I wrote 
these things for a number of years, and — well, 
here they are. But just to say "Here they are" 
is to be too informal for my publisher. He wants, 
not a casual introduction, but a presentation. 
Let me tell you a little story instead. 

WTien war broke out, I had published three of 
these books in England, the gleanings of nine 
years ' regular work for Punch. There are, I under- 
stand, a few Americans who read Punch, and it 
was suggested to me that a suitable collection of 
articles from these three books might have some 
sort of American sale. So I made such a col- 
lection, leaving out the more topical and allusive 



X INTRODUCTION 

sketches, and including those with a more general 
appeal. I called the result "Happy Days" — an 
attractive title, you will agree — and in 1915 a 
New York publisher was found for it. 

This is a funny story; at least it appeals to me; 
so I won't remind myself of the number of copies 
which we sold. That was tragedy, not comedy. 
The joke lay in one of the few notices which the 
book received from the press. For a New York 
critic ended his review of "Happy Days" with 
these immortal words: 

' '3/r. Milne is at present in the trenches 
facing the German bullets, so this will prob- 
ably be his last book." 

You see now whj^ an apology is necessary. 
Here we are, seven years later, and I am still 
at it. 

But at any rate, it is the last of this sort of book. 
As I said in a foreword to the English edition: 
"It is the last time because this sort of writing 
depends largely upon the irresponsibility and high 
spirits of youth for its success, and I want to stop 
before (may I say 'before'?) the high spirits 
become mechanical and the irresponsibility a 
trick. Perhaps the fact that this collection is 
final will excuse its air of scrappiness. Odd 
Verses have crept in on the unanswerable plea 
that, if they didn't do it now, they never would; 
War Sketches protested that I shouldn't have 
a book at all if I left them out; an Early 



INTRODUCTION xi 

Article, omitted from three previous volumes, 
paraded for the fourth time with such a pa- 
thetic 'I suppose you don't want me' in its eye 
that it could not decently be rejected. So here 
they all are." 

One further word of explanation. You may 
find the first section of this book — "Oranges and 
Lemons" — a little difiicult. The characters of 
it are old friends to that limited public which 
reads my books in England; their earlier adven- 
tures have been told in those previous volumes 
(and purposely omitted from "Happy Days" as 
being a little too insular). I feel somehow that 
strangers will not be on such easy terms with 
them, and I would recommend that you approach 
them last. By that time you will have discovered 
whether you are in a mood to stop and listen to 
their chatter, or prefer to pass them by with a 
nod. 

A. A. M. 



THE SUNNY SIDE 



I. ORANGES AND LEMONS 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 

I. THE INVITATION 

" Tpv EAR MYRA," wrote Simpson at the 
I W beginning of the year — " I have an im- 
portant suggestion to make to you both, 
and I am coming round to-morrow night after 
dinner about nine o'clock. As time is so short I 
have asked DahHa and Archie to meet me there, 
and if by any chance you have gone out we shall 
wait till you come back. 

" Yours ever, 

" Samuel 
" P.S. — I have asked Thomas too." 

" Well.''" said Myra eagerly, as I gave her back 
the letter. 

In deep thought I buttered a piece of toast. 

"We could stop Thomas," I said. " We might 
ring up the Admiralty and ask them to give him 
something to do this evening. I don't know about 
Archie. Is he " 

"Oh, what do you think it is.^^ Aren't you ex- 
cited.'^" She sighed and added, "Of course I know 
what Samuel is. " 

"Yes. Probably he wants us all to go to the 

3 



4 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Zoo together ... or he's discovered a new way 

of putting, or I say, I didn't know Archie 

and Dahha were in town." 

" They aren't. But I expect Samuel telegraphed 
to them to meet him under the clock at Charing 
Cross disguised, when they would hear of some- 
thing to their advantage. Oh, I wonder what it 
is. It must be something real this time. " 

Since the day when Simpson woke me up at six 
o'clock in the morning to show me his stance-for- 
a-full-wooden-club shot I have distrusted his en- 
thusiasms; but Myra loves him as a mother; and 
I — I couldn't do without him; and when a man 
like that invites a whole crowd of people to come 
to your flat just about the time when you are 
wondering what has happened to the sardines on 
toast — well, it isn't polite to put the chain on the 
door and explain through the letter-box that you 
have gone away for a week. 

"We'd better have dinner a bit earlier to be on 
the safe side," I said, as Myra gave me a parting 
brush down in the hall. "If any further develop- 
ments occur in the course of the day, ring me up 
at the office. By the way, Simpson doesn't seem 
to have invited Peter. I wonder why not. He's 
nearly two, and he ought to be in it. Myra, I'm 
sure I'm tidy now." 

"Pipe, tobacco, matches, keys, money?" 

"Everything," I said. "Bless you. Good- 
bye." 

"Good-bye," said Myra lingeringly. "What 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 5 

do you think he meant by 'as time is so 
short'?" 

"I don't know, At least," I added, looking at 
my watch, "I do know. I shall be horribly late. 
Good-bye." 

I fled down the stairs into the street, waved to 
Myra at the window . . . and then came cau- 
tiously up again for my pipe. Life is very difficult 
on the mornings when you are in a hurry. 

At dinner that night Myra could hardly eat for 
excitement. 

"You'll be sorry afterwards," I warned her, 
"when it turns out to be nothing more than that 
he has had his hair cut. " 

"But even if it is, I don't see why I shouldn't be 
excited at seeing my only brother again — not to 
mention sister-in-law. " 

"Then let's move," I said. "They'U be here 
directly. " 

Archie and Dahlia came first. We besieged 
them with questions as soon as they appeared. 

"Haven't an idea," said Archie. "I wanted to 
bring a revolver in case it was anything really 
desperate, but Dahlia wouldn't let me." 

"It would have been useful too," I said, "if it 
turned out to be something merely futile." 

"You're not going to hurt my Samuel, however 
futile it is," said Myra. "Dahlia, how's Peter, 
and will you have some coffee?" 

"Peter's lovely. You've had coffee, haven't 
you, Archie?" 



6 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Better have some more," I suggested, "in'case 
Simpson is merely soporific. We anticipate a 
slumbering audience, and Samuel explaining a new 
kind of googlie he's invented. " 

Entered Thomas lazily. 

"Hallo," he said in his slow voice. "What's 
it all about. 5^" 

"It's a raid on the Begum's palace," explained 
Archie rapidly. "Dahlia decoys the Chief Mucil- 
age; you, Thomas, drive the submarine; Myra 
has charge of the clockwork mouse, and we others 
hang about and sing. To say more at this stage 
would be to bring about a European conflict. " 

"Coffee, Thomas.?" said Myra. 

"I bet he's having us on," said Thomas gloom- 
ily, as he stirred his coffee. 

There was a hurricane in the hall. Chairs were 
swept over; coats and hats fell to the ground; a 
high voice offered continuous apologies — and 
Simpson came in. 

"Hallo, Myra!" he said eagerly. "Hallo, old 
chap! Hallo, Dahlia! Hallo, Archie! Hallo, 
Thomas, old boy!" He fixed his spectacles firmly 
on his nose and beamed round the room. 

"We're all here — thanking you very much for 
inviting us," I said. "Have a cigar — if you've 
brought any with you. " 

Fortunately he had brought several with him. 

"Now then, I'll give any of you three guesses 
what it's all about." 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 7 

"No, you don't. We're all waiting, and you 
can begin your apology right away." 

Simpson took a deep breath and began. 

"I've been lent a villa," he said. 

There was a moment's silence . . . and then 
Archie got up. 

"Good-bye," he said to Myra, holding out his 
hand. "Thanks for a very jolly evening. Come 
along Dahlia." 

"But I say, old chap," protested Simpson. 

"I'm sorry, Simpson, but the fact that you're 
moving from the Temple to Cricklewood, or wher- 
ever it is, and that somebody else is paying the 
thirty pounds a year, is jolly interesting, but it 
wasn't good enough to drag us up from the coun- 
try to tell us about it. You could have written. 
However, thank you for the cigar. " 

"My dear fellow, it isn't Cricklewood. It's the 
Riviera!" 

Archie sat down again. 

"Samuel!" cried Myra. "How she must love 
you! 

"I should never lend Simpson a villa of mine,'* 
I said. " He'd only lose it. " 

"They're some very old friends who live there, 
and they're going away for a month, and the ser- 
vants are staying on, and they suggested that if I 
was going abroad again this year " 

"How did the servants know you'd been abroad 
l£i,st year?" asked Archie. 



8 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Don't interrupt, dear," said Dalilia. "I see 
what he means. How very jolly for you, Samuel. " 

"For all of us, Dahlia!" 

"You aren't suggesting we shall all crowd in?" 
growled Thomas. 

"Of course, my dear old chap! I told them, and 
they're delighted. We can share housekeeping 
expenses, and it will be as cheap as anj-thing. " 

"But to go into a stranger's house," said Dahlia 
anxiously. 

"It's my house, Dahlia, for the time. I invite 
you!" He tlirew out his hands in a large gesture 
of welcome and knocked his coffee-cup on to the 
carpet; begged Myra's pardon several times; and 
then sat do\^^l again and wiped his spectacles 
\'igorously. 

Archie looked doubtfully at Thomas. 

"Duty, Thomas, duty," he said, thumping his 
chest. "You can't desert the Navy at this 
moment of crisis. " 

"Might," said Thomas, puflSng at his pipe. 

Archie looked at me. I looked hopefully at 
Myra. 

"Oh-h-h!" said Myra, entranced. 

Archie looked at Dahlia. Dahlia frowned. 

"It isn't till February," said Simpson eagerly. 

"It's very kind of you, Samuel," said Dahlia, 
"but I don't think ^" 

Archie nodded to Simpson. 

"You leave this to me," he said confidentially. 
"We're going." 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 



II. ON THE WAY 

"Toulon," announced Archie, as the train came 
to a stop and gave out its plaintive, dying 
whistle. " Naval port of our dear allies, the 
French. This would interest Thomas. " 

"If he weren't asleep," I said. 

"He'll be here directly," said Simpson from the 
little table for two on the other side of the gang- 
way. "I'm afraid he had a bad night. Here, 

gargon — er — donnez-moi du cafe et — er " But 

the waiter had slipped past him again — the fifth 
time. 

"Have some of ours," said Myra kindly, holding 
out the pot. 

"Thanks very much, Myra, but I may as well 
wait for Thomas, and — gargon, du cafe pour — I 
don't think he'll be — deux cafes, gargon, s'il vous 
— it's going to be a lovely day." 

Thomas came in quietly, sat down opposite 
Simpson, and ordered breakfast. 

"Samuel wants some too," said Myra. 

Thomas looked surprised, grunted and ordered 
another breakfast. 

"You see how easy it is," said Archie. 
"Thomas, we're at Toulon, where the ententes 
cordiales come from. You ought to have been 
up long ago taking notes for the Admiralty. " 

"I had a rotten night,"said Thomas. "Simp- 
son fell out of bed in the middle of it." 



10 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Oh, poor Samuel!" 

"You don't mean to say you gave him the top 
berth?" I asked in surprise. "You must have 
known he'd fall out." 

"But, Thomas dear, surely Samuel's just falling- 
out-of-bed noise wouldn't wake you up," said 
Myra. "I always thought you slept so well." 

"He tried to get back into my bed." 

"I was a little dazed," explained Simpson 
hastily, "and I hadn't got my spectacles." 

"Still you ought to have been able to see 
Thomas there." 

"Of course I did see him as soon as I got in, and 
then I remembered I was up above. So I climbed 
up^" 

"It must be rather difficult climbing up at 
night," thought Dahlia. 

"Not if you get a good take-off, Dahlia," said 
Simpson earnestly. 

"Simpson got a good one off my face," ex- 
plained Thomas. 

"My dear old chap, I was frightfully sorry. I 
did come down at once and tell you how sorry I 
was, didn't I.?" 

"You stepped back on to it," said Thomas 
shortly, and he turned his attention to the coffee. 

Our table had finished breakfast. Dahlia and 
Myra got up slowly, and Archie and I filled our 
pipes and followed them out. 

"Well, we'll leave you to it," said Archie to the 
other table. "Personally, I think it's Thomas's 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 11 

turn to step on Simpson. But don't be long, be- 
cause there's a good view coming." 

The good view came, and then another and 
another, and they merged together and became 
one long, moving panorama of beauty. We stood 
in the corridor and drank it in . . . and at inter- 
vals we said "Oh-h!" and "Oh, I say!" and "Oh, 
I say, really!" And there was one particular spot 
I wish I could remember where, so that it might 
be marked by a suitable tablet — at the sight of 
which Simpson was overheard to say, "Mon Dieul" 
for (probably) the first time in his life. 

"You know, all these are olive trees, you chaps," 
he said every five minutes. "I wonder if there are 
any olives growing on them.f*" 

"Too early," said Archie. "It's the sardine 
season now. " 

It was at Cannes that we saw the first oranges. 

"That does it," I said to Myra. "We're really 
here. And look, there's a lemon tree. Give me 
the oranges and lemons, and you can have all the 
palms and the cactuses and the olives." 

"Like polar bears in the arctic regions," said 
Myra. 

I thought for a moment. Superficially there 
is very little resemblance between an orange and 
a polar bear. 

"Like polar bears," I said hopefully. 

"I mean," luckily she went on, "polar bears do 
it for you in the polar regions. You really know 
you're there theri. Give me the polar bears, I 



n THE SUNNY SIDE 

always say, and you can keep the seals and 
the walruses and the penguins. It's the hall- 
mark." 

"Right. I knew you meant something. In 
London," I went on, "it is raining. Looking out 
of my window I see a lamp-post (not in flower) 
beneath a low, grey sky. Here we see oranges 
against a blue sky a million miles deep. What a 
blend! Myra, let's go to a fancy-dress ball when 
we get back. You go as an orange and I'll go as 
a very blue, blue sky, and you shall lean against 
me. 

"And we'll dance the tangerine," said Myra. 

But now observe us approaching Monte Carlo. 
For an hour past Simpson has been collecting his 
belongings. Two bags, two coats, a camera, a rug, 
Thomas, golf-clubs, books — his compartment is 
full of things which have to be kept under his eye 
lest they should evade him at the last moment. 
As the train leaves Monaco his excitement is in- 
tense. 

"I think, old chap," he says to Thomas, "I'll 
wear the coats after all. " 

"And the bags," says Thomas, "and then you'll 
have a suit. " 

Simpson puts on the two coats and appears very 
big and hot. 

"I'd better have my hands free," he says, and 
straps the camera and the golf-clubs on to himself. 
"Then if you nip out and get a porter I can hand 
the bags out to him through the window. " 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 13 

"All right," says Thomas. He is deep in his 
book and looks as if he were settled in his corner 
of the carriage for the day. 

The train stops. There is bustle, noise, con- 
fusion. Thomas in some magical way has dis- 
appeared. A porter appears at the open window 
and speaks voluble French to Simpson. Simp- 
son looks round wildly for Thomas. "Thomas!" 
he cries. "C7n moment," he says to the porter. 

"Thomas! Mon ami, il rtest pas I say, 

Thomas, old chap, where are you.f* Attendez un 

moment. Mon ami — er — reviendra " He is 

very hot. He is wearing, in addition to what one 
doesn't mention, an ordinary waistcoat, a woolly 
waistcoat for steamer use, a tweed coat, an aqua- 
scutum, an ulster, a camera and a bag of golf- 
clubs. The porter, with many gesticulations, is 
still hurling French at him. 

It is too much for Simpson. He puts his head 
out of the window and, observing in the distance a 
figure of such immense dignity that it can only 
belong to the station-master, utters to him across 
the hurly-burly a wild call for help. 

"Oil est Cook's homme?" he cries. 

III. SETTLING DOWN 

The villa was high up on the hill, having (as 
Simpson was to point out several times later) 
Mentone on its left hand and Monte Carlo on its 
right. A long winding path led up through its 



14 THE SUNNY SIDE 

garden of olives to the front door, and through 
the mimosa trees which flanked this door we could 
see already a flutter of white aprons. The staff 
was on the loggia waiting to greet us. 

We halted a moment out of sight of the ladies 
above and considered ourselves. It came to us 
with a sudden shock that we were a very large 
party. 

"I suppose," said Archie to Simpson, "they do 
expect all of us and not only you.'' You told them 
that about half London was coming .f*" 

"We're only six," said Myra, "because I've just 
counted again, but we seem about twenty." 

"It's quite all right," said Simpson cheerfully. 
"I said we'd be six." 

"But six in a letter is much smaller than six of 
us like this; and when they see our luggage " 

"Let's go back," I suggested, suddenly nervous. 
To be live guests of the guest of a man you have 
never met is delicate work. 

At this critical moment Archie assumed com- 
mand. He is a Captain in the Yeomanry and has 
tackled bigger jobs than this in his time. 

"We must get ourselves into proper order," he 
said. "Simpson, the villa has been lent to you; 
you must go first. Dahlia and I come next. 
When we arrive you will introduce us as your 
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Mannering. Then turning 
to Myra you say, *Mr. Mannering's sister; and 
this,' you add, 'is her husband.' Then — er — 
Thomas " 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 15 

"It will be diflScult to account for Thomas," I 
said. "Thomas comes at the end. He hangs 
back a little at first; and then if he sees that there 
is going to be any awkwardness about him, he can 
pretend he's come on the wrong night, and apolo- 
gize and go home again. " 

"If Thomas goes, I go, " said Myra dramatically. 

"I have another idea," I said. "Thomas hides 
here for a bit. We introduce ourselves and settle 
in, and have lunch; and after lunch we take a 
stroll in the garden, and to our great surprise dis- 
cover Thomas. 'Thomas,' we say, ^you here? 
Dear old chap, we thought you were in England. 
How splendid! Where are you staying? Oh, but 
you must stop with us; we can easily have a bed 
put up for you in the garage.' And then " 

"Not after lunch," said Thomas; "before 
lunch." 

"Don't all be so silly, " smiled Dahlia. " They'll 
wonder what has happened to us if we wait any 
longer. Besides, the men will be here with the 
luggage directly. Come along. " 

"Samuel," said Archie, "forward." 

In our new formation we marched up, Simpson 
excited and rehearsing to himself the words of 
introduction, we others outwardly calm. At a 
range of ten yards he opened fire. "How do you 
do?" he beamed. "Here we all are! Isn't it a 
lovely " 

The cook-housekeeper, majestic but kindly, 
came forward with outstretched hand and wel- 



16 THE SUNNY SIDE 

coined him volubly — In French. The other three 
ladies added their French to hers. There was only 
one English body on the loggia. It belonged to a 
bull-dog. The bull-dog barked loudly at Simpson 
in English. 

There was no "Cook's homme" to save Simp- 
son this time. But he rose to the occasion nobly. 
The scent of the mimosa inspired him. 

" J/erci," he said, ''merci. Oui, nest ce pas! De- 
lightfid. Er — these are — ces sont mes ainis. Er — 
Dahlia, come along — er. Monsieur et Madame 
Mannering — er — Myra, la soeur de Monsieur — er 
— where are you, old chap? — le mari de la soeur de 
Monsieur. Er — Thomas — er " (he was car- 
ried away by memories of his schoolboy French), 

*'lefrere du jardinier — er " He wheeled round 

and saw me; introduced me again; introduced 
Myra as my wife, Archie as her brother, and 
Dahlia as Archie's wife; and then with a sudden 
inspiration presented Thomas grandly as "Ze 
beau-pere du petit fits de mes amis Monsieur et 
Madame Mannering." Thomas seemed more as- 
sured of his place as Peter's godfather than as the 
brother of the gardener. 

There were four ladies; we shook hands with all 
of them. It took us a long time, and I doubt if 
we got it all in even so, for twice I found myself 
shaking hands with Simpson. But these may have 
been additional ones thrown in. It was over at 
last, and we followed the staff indoors. 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 17 

And then we had another surprise. It was 
broken to us by Dahlia, who, at Simpson's urgent 
request, took up the position of lady of the house, 
and forthwith received the flowing confidences of 
the housekeeper. 

"Two of us have to sleep outside," she said. 

"Where.?" we all asked blankly. 

We went on to the loggia again, and she pointed 
to a little house almost hidden by olive-trees in a 
corner of the garden below us. 

"Oh, well, that's all right," said Archie. "It's 
on the estate. Thomas, you and Simpson won't 
mind that a bit, will you.?^" 

"We can't turn Samuel out of his own house,'* 
said Myra indignantly. 

"We aren't turning him; he wants to go. But, 
of course, if you and your young man would like 
to live there instead " 

Myra looked at me eagerly. 

"It would be rather fun," she said. "We'd 
have another little honeymoon all to ourselves. " 

"It wouldn't really be a honeymoon," I ob- 
jected. "We should always be knocking up 
against trippers in the garden, Archies and Samu- 
els and Thomases and what not. They'd be all 
over the place. " 

Dahlia explained the domestic arrangements. 
The honeymooners had their little breakfast in 
their own little house, and then joined the others 
for the day at about ten. 



18 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Or eleven," said Thomas. 

"It would be rather lovely, " said Myra thought- 
fully. 

"Yes," I agreed; "but have you considered 

that Come over this way a moment, where 

Thomas and Simpson can't hear, while I tell you 
some of the disadvantages. " 

I led her into a quiet corner and suggested a few 
things to her which I hoped would not occur to 
the other two. 

Item: That if it was raining hard at night, it 
would be beastly. Item: That if you suddenly 
found you'd left your pipe behind, it would be 
rotten. Item: That if, as was probable, there 
wasn't a proper bathroom in the little house, it 
would be sickening. Item: That if she had to 
walk on muddy paths in her evening shoes, it 
would be 

At this point Myra suddenly caught the thread 
of the argument. We went back to the others. 

"We think," said Myra, "it would be perfectly 
heavenly in the little house; but " She hesi- 
tated. 

" But at the same time, " I said, " we think it's up 
to Simpson and Thomas to be English gentlemen. 
Samuel, it's your honour. " 

There was a moment's silence. 

"Come along," said Thomas to Simpson, "let's 
go and look at it. " 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 19 

After lunch, clean and well-fed and happy, we 
lay in deck-chairs on the loggia and looked lazily 
down at the Mediterranean. 

"Thank you, Samuel, for bringing us," said 
Dahlia gently. "Your friends must be very fond 
of you to have lent you this lovely place. " 

"Not fonder than we are," said Myra, smiling 
at him. 

IV. BEFORE LUNCH 

I FOUND Myra in the hammock at the end of the 
loggia. 

"Hallo," I said. 

"Hallo." She looked up from her book and 
waved her hand. "Mentone on the left, Monte 
Carlo on the right, " she said, and returned to her 
book again. Simpson had mentioned the situa- 
tion so many times that it had become a catch- 
phrase with us. 

"Fancy reading on a lovely morning like this," 
I complained. 

"But that's why. It's a very gloomy play by 
Ibsen, and whenever it's simply more than I can 
bear, I look up and see Mentone on the left, Monte 
Carlo on the right — I mean, I see all the loveliness 
round me, and then I know the world isn't so bad 
after all." She put her book down. "Are you 
alone.?" 

I gripped her wrist suddenly and put the paper- 
knife to her throat. 



20 THE SUNNY SIDE 

^'We are alone," I hissed — or whatever you do 
to a sentence without any "s's" in it to make it 
dramatic. "Your friends cannot save you now. 
Prepare to — er — come a walk up the hill with 
me. 

"Help! Help!" whispered Myra. She hesi- 
tated a moment; then swung herself out of the 
hammock and went in for her hat. 

We climbed up a steep path which led to the 
rock- village above us. Simpson had told us that 
we must see the village; still more earnestly he 
had begged us to see Corsica. The view of Cor- 
sica was to be obtained from a point some miles 
up — too far to go before lunch. 

"However, we can always say we saw it," I re- 
assured Myra. "From this distance you can't be 
certain of recognizing an island you don't know. 
Any small cloud on the horizon will do. " 

"I know it on the map." 

"Yes, but it looks quite different in real life. 
The great thing is to be able to assure Simpson at 
lunch that the Corsican question is now closed. 
When we're a little higher up, I shall say, ' Surely 
that's Corsica?' and you'll say, 'Not Corsica?' 
as though you'd rather expected the Isle of Wight; 
and then it'll be all over. Hallo!" 

We had just passed the narrow archway leading 
into the courtyard of the village and were following 
the path up the hill. But in that moment of pas- 
sing we had been observed. Behind us a dozen 
village children now trailed eagerly. 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 21 

"Oh, the dears!" cried Myra. 

"But I think we made a mistake to bring them, " 
I said severely. "No one is fonder of our — one, 
two, three ... I make it eleven — our eleven 
children than I am, but there are times when 
Father and Mother want to be alone. " 

"I'm sorry, dear. I thought you'd be so proud 
to have them all with you. " 

"I am proud of them. To reflect that all the — 
one, two ... I make it thirteen — all these thir- 
teen are ours, is very inspiring. But I don't like 
people to think that we cannot afford our youngest, 
our little Philomene, shoes and stockings. And 
Giuseppe should have washed his face since last 
Friday. These are small matters, but they are 
very trying to a father. " 

"Have you any coppers?" asked Myra sud- 
denly. "You forget their pocket-money last 
week. " 

"One, two, three — I cannot possibly afford — 

one, two, three, four Myra, I do wish you'd 

count them definitely and tell me how many we 
have. One likes to know. I cannot afford pocket- 
money for more than a dozen. " 

"Ten." She took a franc from me and gave it 
to the biggest girl. (Anne-Marie, our first, and 
getting on so nicely with her French.) Rapidly 
she explained what was to be done with it, Anne- 
Marie's look of intense rapture slowly straighten- 
ing itself to one of ordinary gratitude as the 
financial standing of the other nine in the business 



22 THE SUNNY SIDE 

became clear. Then we waved farewell to our 
family and went on. 

High above the village, a thousand feet above 
the sea, we rested, and looked down upon the 
silvery olives stretching into the blue . . . and 
more particularly upon one red roof which stood 
up amid the grey-green trees. 

"That's the Cardews' villa," I said. 

Myra was silent. 

When Myra married me she promised to love, 
honour and write all my thank-you-very-much 
letters for me, for we agreed before the ceremony 
that the word "obey" should mean nothing more 
than that. There are two sorts of T. Y. V. M. 
letters — the "Thank you very much for asking 
us, we shall be delighted to come," and the 
"Thank you very much for having us, we enjoyed 
it immensely." With these off my mind I could 
really concentrate on my work, or my short 
mashie shots, or whatever was of importance. 
But there was now a new kind of letter to write, 
and one rather outside the terms of our original 
understanding. A friend of mine had told his 
friends the Cardews that we were going out to the 
Riviera and would let them know when we arrived 
. . . and we had arrived a week ago. 

"It isn't at all an easy letter to write," said 
Myra. "It's practically asking a stranger for 
hospitality. " 

"Let us say 'indicating our readiness to accept 
it.' It sounds better. " 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 23 

Myra smiled slowly to herself. 

" 'Dear Mrs. Cardew,' "she said, " 'we are ready 
for lunch when you are. Yours sincerely.'" 

"Well, that's the idea." 

"And then what about the others .f^ If the Car- 
dews are going to be nice we don't want to leave 
Dahlia and all of them out of it. " 

I thought it over carefully for a little. 

"What you want to do," I said at last, "is to 
write a really long letter to Mrs. Cardew, ac- 
quainting her with all the facts. Keep nothing 
back from her. I should begin by dwelling on 
the personnel of our little company. 'My hus- 
band and I,' you should say, 'are not alone. We 
have also with us Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Man- 
nering, a delightful couple. Mr. A. Mannering 
is something in the Territorials when he is not 
looking after his estate. His wife is a great favour- 
ite in the county. Next I have to introduce to 
you Mr. Thomas Todd, an agreeable young bache- 
lor. Mr. Thomas Todd is in the Sucking-a-ruler- 
and-looking-out-of-the-window Department of the 
Admiralty, by whose exertions, so long as we pre- 
serve the 2 Todds to 1 formula — or, excluding 
Canadian Todds, 16 to 10 — Britannia rules the 
waves. Lastly, there is Mr. Samuel Simpson. 
Short of sight but warm of heart, and with (on a 
bad pitch) a nasty break from the off, Mr. S. 
Simpson is a liUerateur of some eminence but little 
circulation, combining on the cornet intense wind- 
power with no execution, and on the golf course an 



^ THE SUNNY SIDE 

endless enthusiasm with only an occasional con- 
tact. This, dear Mrs. Cardew, is our little party. 
I say nothing of my husband.'" 

"Go on," smiled Myra. "You have still to 
explain how we invite ourselves to lunch." 

"We don't; we leave that to her. All we do is 
to give a list of the meals in which, in the ordinary 
course, we are wont to indulge, together with a 
few notes on our relative capacities at each. 'Per- 
haps,' you wind up, 'it is at luncheon time that 
as a party we show to the best advantage. Some 
day, my dear Mrs. Cardew, we must all meet at 
lunch. You will then see that I have exaggerated 
neither my husband's appetite, nor the light con- 
versation of my brother, nor the power of apology, 
should any little contretemps occur, of Mr. Samuel 
Simpson. Let us, I say, meet at lunch. Let 
us '" I took out my watch suddenly. 

"Come on," I said, getting up and giving a 
hand to Myra; "we shall only just be in time for 
it." 

V. THE GAMESTERS 

"It's about time," said Simpson one evening, 

"that we went to the tables and — er " (he 

adjusted his spectacles) — "had a little flutter." 

We all looked at him in silent admiration. 

"Oh, Samuel," sighed Myra, "and I promised 
your aunt that you shouldn't gamble while you 
were away. " 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 25 

"But, my dear Myra, it's the first thing the fel- 
lows at the club ask you when you've been to the 
Riviera — if you've had any luck." 

"Well, you've had a lot of luck," said Archie. 
"Several times when you've been standing on the 
heiglits and calling attention to the beautiful view 
below, I've said to myself, 'One push, and he's a 
deader,' but something, some mysterious agency 
within, has kept me back. " 

"All the fellows at the club " 

Simpson is popularly supposed to belong to a 
Fleet Street Toilet and Hairdressing Club, where 
for three guineas a year he gets shaved every day, 
and has his hair cut whenever Myra insists. On 
the many occasions when he authorizes a startling 
story of some well-known statesman with the 
words: "My dear old chap, I know it for a fact. 
I heard it at the club to-day from a friend of his," 
then we know that once again the barber's assist- 
ant has been gossiping over the lather. 

"Do think, Samuel," I interrupted, "how much 
more splendid if you could be the only man who 
had seen Monte Carlo without going inside the 
rooms. And then when the hairdresser — when 
your friends at the club ask if you've had any 
luck at the tables, you just say coldly, 'What 
tables?'" 

"Preferably in Latin," said Archie. ''Quob 
menscE?" 

But it was obviously no good arguing with him. 
Besides, we were all keen enough to go. 



26 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"We needn't lose," said Myra. "We might 
win." 

" Good idea, " said Thomas. He ht his pipe and 
added, "Simpson was telhng me about his system 
last night. At least, he was just beginning when 
I went to sleep." He applied another match to 
his pipe and went on, as if the idea had suddenly 
struck him, "Perhaps it was only his internal 
system he meant. I didn't wait." 

"Samuel, you are quite well inside, aren't you.^^" 

"Quite, Myra. But I have invented a sort of 
system for roulette, which we might " 

"There's only one system which is any good," 
pronounced Archie. "It's the system by which, 
when you've lost all your own money, you turn to 
the man next to you and say, 'Lend me a louis, 
dear old chap, till Christmas; I've forgotten my 
purse. 

"No systems, " said Dahlia. "Let's make a col- 
lection and put it all on one number and hope it 
will win. " 

Dahlia had obviously been reading novels about 
people who break the bank. 

"It's as good a way of losing as any other," said 
Archie. "Let's do it for our first gamble, any- 
way. Simpson, as our host, shall put the money 
on. I, as his oldest friend, shall watch him to 
see that he does it. What's the number to be?" 

We all thought hard for several moments. 

" Samuel, what's your age.-^ " asked Myra, at last. 

"Right off the board," said Thomas. 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 27 

"You're not really more than thirty-six? " Myra 
whispered to him. "Tell me as a secret." 

"Peter's nearly two," said Dahha. 

"Do you think you could nearly put our money 
on 'two'?" asked Archie, 

"I once made seventeen," I said, "On that 
never-to-be-forgotten day when I went in first 
with Archie " 

"That settles it. Here's to the highest score of 
The Rabbits' wicket-keeper. To-morrow after- 
noon we put our money on seventeen. Simpson, 
you have between now and 3.30 to-morrow to 
perfect your French delivery of the magic word 
dix-sept" 

I went to bed a proud but anxious man that 
night. It was my famous score which had decided 
the figure that was to bring us fortune . . . and 
yet . . . and yet . . . 

Suppose eighteen turned up? The remorse, the 
bitterness! "If only," I should tell myself— "if 
only we had run three instead of two for that cut 
to square-leg!" Suppose it were sixteen! "Why, 
oh why," I should groan,. "did I make the scorer 
put that bye down as a hit?" Suppose it were 
thirty-four! But there my responsibility ended. 
If it were going to be thirty -four, they should have 
used one of Archie's scores, and made a good job 
of it. 

At 3.30 next day we were in the fatal building. 
I should like to pause here and describe my cos- 
tume to you, which was a quiet grey in the best 



28 THE SUNNY SIDE 

of taste, but Myra says that If I do this I must 
describe hers too, a feat beyond me. Sufficient 
that she looked dazzHng, that as a party we were 
remarkably well-dressed, and that Simpson — 
murmuring ^^dix-sepV to himself at intervals — 
led the way through the rooms till he found a table 
to his liking. 

"Aren't you excited.^*" whispered Myra to me. 

"Frightfully," I said, and left my mouth well 
open. I don't quite know what picture of the 
event Myra and I had conjured up in our minds, 
but I fancy it was one something like this. At 
the entrance into the rooms of such a large and 
obviously distinguished party there would be a 
slight sensation among the crowd, and way would 
be made for us at the most important table. It 
would then leak out that Chevalier Simpson — 
the tall poetical-looking gentleman in the middle, 
my dear — had brought with him no less a sum 
than thirty francs with which to break the bank, 
and that he proposed to do this in one daring coup. 
At this news the players at the other tables would 
hastily leave their winnings (or losings) and crowd 
round us. Chevalier Simpson, pale but controlled, 
would then place his money on seventeen — '^dix- 
sept,"" he would say to the croupier to make it quite 
clear — and the ball would be spun. As it slowed 
down, the tension in the crowd would increase. 
*'Mon Dieu!" a woman would crj^ in a shrill voice; 
there would be guttural exclamations from Ger- 
mans ; at the edge of the crowd strong men would 
swoon. At last a sudden shriek . . . and the 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 29 

croupier's voice, trembling for the first time for 
thirty years, ''Dix-sepi!" Then gold and notes 
would be pushed at the Chevalier. He would 
stuff his pockets with them; he would fill his hat 
with them; we others, we would stuff our pockets 
too. The bank would send out for more money. 
There would be loud cheers from all the company 
(with the exception of one man, who had put five 
francs on sixteen and had shot himself) and we 
should be carried — that is to say, we four men — 
shoulder high to the door, while by the deserted 
table Myra and Dahlia clung to each other, weep- 
ing tears of happiness . . . 

Something like that. 

What happened was different. As far as I could 
follow, it was this. Over the heads of an enor- 
mous, badly-dressed and utterly indifferent crowd 
Simpson handed his thirty francs to the croupier. 

" Dix-sept,'' he said. 

The croupier with his rake pushed the money 
on to seventeen. 

Another croupier with his rake pulled it off 
again . . . and stuck to it. 

The day's fun was over. 



"What did win.^" asked Myra some minutes 
later, when the fact that we should never see our 
money again had been brought home to her. 

"Zero," said Archie. 

I sighed heavily. 

"My usual score," I said, "not my highest." 



30 THE SUNNY SIDE 



VI. THE RECORD OF IT 

"I SHALL be glad to see Peter again," said Dahlia, 
as she folded up her letter from home. 

Peter's previous letter, dictated to his nurse- 
secretary, had, according to Archie, been full of 
good things. Cross-examination of the proud 
father, however, had failed to reveal anything 
more stirring than "I love mummy," and — er — 
so on. 

We were sitting in the loggia after what I don't 
call breakfast — all of us except Simpson, who was 
busy with a mysterious package. We had not 
many days left; and I was beginning to feel that, 
personally, I should not be sorry to see things like 
porridge again. Each to his taste. 

"The time has passed absurdly quickly," said 
Myra. "We don't seem to have done anything — 
except enjoy ourselves. I mean anything speci- 
ally Rivierish. But it's been heavenly." 

"We've done lots of Rivierish things," I pro- 
tested. "If you'll be quiet a moment I'll tell you 
some." 

These were some of the things : 

(1) We had been to the Riviera. (Nothing 
could take away from that. We had the labels 
on our luggage.) 

(2) We had lost heavily (thirty francs) at the 
Tables. (This alone justified the journey.) 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 31 

(3) Myra had sat next to a Prince at lunch. 
(Of course she might have done this in London, 
but so far there has been no great rush of Princes 
to our httle flat. Dukes, Mayors, Companions of 
St. Michael and St. George, certainly; but, some- 
how, not Princes.) 

(4) Simpson had done the short third hole at 
Mt. Agel in three. (His first had cleverly dis- 
lodged the ball from the piled-up tee; his second, 
a sudden nick, had set it rolling down the hill to 
the green; and the third, an accidental putt, had 
sunk it.) 

(5) Myra and I had seen Corsica. (Question.) 

(6) And finally, and best of all, we had sat in 
the sun, under a blue sky above a blue sea, and 
watched the oranges and lemons grow. 

So, though we had been to but few of the famous 
beauty spots around, we had had a delightfully 
lazy time; and as proof that we had not really 
been at Brighton there were, as I have said, the 
luggage labels. But we were to be able to show 
further proof. At this moment Simpson came 
out of the house, his face beaming with excitement, 
his hands carefully concealing something behind 
his back. 

"Guess what I've got," he said eagerly. 

"The sack," said Thomas. 

"Your new bests," said Archie. 

"Something that will interest us all," helped 
Simpson. 

"I withdraw my suggestion," said Archie. 



S2 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Something we ought to have brought with us 
all along." 

"More money," said Myra. 

The tension was extreme. It was obvious that 
our consuming anxiety would have to be relieved 
very speedily. To avoid a riot, Thomas went 
behind Simpson's back and took his surprise away 
from him. 

"A camera," he said. "Good idea." 

Simpson was all over himself with bon-hommy. 

"I suddenly thought of it the other night," he 
said, smiling round at all of us in his happiness, 
"and I was just going to wake Thomas up to tell 
him,*^when I thought I'd keep it a secret. So I 
wrote to a friend of mine and asked him to send 
me out one, and some films and things, just as a 
surprise for you." 

"Samuel, you are a dear," said Myra, looking at 
him lovingly. 

"You see, I thought, Myra, you'd like to have 
some records of the place, because they're so jolly 
to look back on, and — er, I'm not quite sure how 
you work it, but I expect some of you know and — 
er 

"Come on," said Myra, "I'll show you." She 
retired with Simpson to a secluded part of the 
loggia and helped him put the films in. 

"Nothing can save us," said Archie. "We are 
going to be taken together in a group. Simpson 
will send it to one of the picture papers, and we 
shall appear as 'Another Merry Little Party of 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 33 

Well-known Sun-seekers. Names from left to 
right: Blank, blank, Mr. Archibald Mannering, 
blank, blank.' I'd better go and brush my hair." 

Simpson returned to us, nervous and fully 
charged with advice. 

"Right, Myra, I see. That'll be all right. Oh, 
look here, do you — oh yes, I see. Right. Now 
then — wait a bit — oh yes, I've got it. Now then, 
what shall we have first.'* A group.?" 

"Take the house and the garden and the vil- 
lage," said Thomas. "You'll see plenty of us 
afterwards." 

"The first one is bound to be a failure," I 
pointed out. "Rather let him fail at us, who are 
known to be beautiful, than at the garden, which 
has its reputation yet to make. Afterwards, when 
he has got the knack, he will be able to do justice 
to the scenery." 

Archie joined us again, followed by the bull-dog. 
We grouped ourselves picturesquely. 

"That looks ripping," said Simpson. "Oh, 

look here, Myra, do you No, don't come; 

you'll spoil the picture. I suppose you have to — 
oh, it's all right, I think I've got it." 

"I shan't try to look handsome this time," said 
Archie; "it's not worth it. I shall just put an 
ordinary blurred expression on." 

"Now, are you ready? Don't move. Quite 
still, please; quite " 

"It's instantaneous, you know," said Myra 
gently. 



34 THE SUNNY SIDE 

This so unnerved Simpson that he let the thing 
off without any further warning, before we had 
time to get our expressions natural. 

"That was all right, Myra, wasn't it?" he said 
proudly. 

"I'm — I'm afraid you had your hand over the 
lens, Samuel dear." 

"Our new photographic series: 'Palms of the 
Great.' No. 1, Mr. S. Simpson's," murmured 
Archie. 

"It wouldn't have been a very good one any- 
how," I said encouragingly. "It wasn't typical. 
Dahlia should have had an orange in her hand, 
and Myra might have been resting her cheek 
against a cactus. Try it again, Simpson, and get 
a little more colour into it." 

He tried again and got a lot more colour into it. 

"Strictly speaking," said Myra sadly, "you 
ought to have got it on to a new film." 

Simpson looked in horror at the back of his 
camera, found that he had forgotten to turn the 
handle, apologized profusely, and wound up very 
gingerly till the number "2" approached. "Now 
then," he said, looking up . . . and found him- 
self alone. 



As I write this in London I have Simpson's 
album in front of me. Should you ever do us the 
honour of dining with us (as I hope you will), and 
(which seems impossible) should there ever come 



ORANGES AND LEMONS 35 

a moment when the conversation runs low, and 
you are revolving in your mind whether it is worth 
while asking us if we have been to any theatres 
lately, then I shall produce the album, and you 
will be left in no doubt that we are just back from 
the Riviera. You will see oranges and lemons and 
olives and cactuses and palms; blue sky (if you 
have enough imagination) and still bluer sea; pic- 
turesque villas, curious effects of rocks, distant 
backgrounds of mountain . . . and on the last 
page the clever kindly face of Simpson. 

The whole affair will probably bore you to tears. 

But with Myra and me the case of course is 
different. We find these things, as Simpson said, 
very jolly to look back on. 



II. MEN OF LETTERS 



II. MEN OF LETTERS 



MEN OF LETTERS 

JOHN PENQUARTO 

A TALE OF LITERARY LIFE IN LONDON 

{Modelled on the hundred best Authors.) 



JOHN PENQUARTO looked round his di- 
minutive bed-sitting-room with a feeUng of 
excitement not unmixed with awe. So this 
was London! The new Hfe had begun. With a 
beating heart he unpacked his bag and set out his 
simple belongings. 

First his books, his treasured books; where 
should he put them.'* It was comforting to think 
that, wherever they stood, they would be within 
reach of his hand as he lay in bed. He placed 
them on the window-sill and read their titles again 
reverently: "Half -Hours with our Water-Beetles," 
"The Fretworker's Companion" and "Strenuous 
Days in Simla." He owed everything to them. 
And what an air they gave the room! 

But not such an air as was given by his other 
treasure — the photograph of Mary, 

39 



40 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Mary ! He had only met her once, and that was 
twenty years ago, at his native Polwollop. He had 
gone to the big house with a message for Mr. Tre- 
vena, her ladyship's butler: "Mother's respects, 
and she has found the other shirt-front and will 
send it up as soon as it is dry." He had often 
taken a similar message, for Mrs. Penquarto did 
the washing for the upper servants at the Hall, 
but somehow he had known that to-day was going 
to be different. 

There, just inside the gates, was Mary. He was 
only six, but even then he knew that never would 
he see again anything so beautiful. She was five; 
but there was something in her manner of holding 
herself and the imperious tilt of her head which 
made her seem almost five-and-a-half. 

"I'm Mary," she said. 

He wanted to say that he was John, but could 
not. He stood there tongue-tied. 

"I love you," she went on. 

His heart beat tumultuously. He felt suffo- 
cated. He longed to say, "So do I," but was 
afraid that it was not good English. Even then 
he knew that he must be a writer when he grew 

up- 

She leant forward and kissed him. He realized 
suddenly that he was in love. The need for self- 
expression was strong upon him. Shyly he 
brought out his last acid-drop and shared it with 
her. He had never seen her since, but even now, 
twenty years after, he could not eat an acid-drop 



MEN OF LETTERS 41 

without emotion, and a whole bag of them brought 
the scene back so visibly as to be almost a pain. 

Yes, he was to be a writer; there could be no 
doubt about that. Everybody had noticed it. 
The Vicar had said, "Johnny will never do any 
good at Polwollop, I fear"; and the farmer for 
whom John scared rooks had said, "Thiccy la-ad 
seems daft-like," and one after another of Mrs. 
Penquarto's friends had given similar testimony. 
And now here he was, at twenty-six, in the little 
bed-sitting-room in Bloomsbury, ready to write 
the great novel which should take London by 
storm. Polwollop seemed a hundred years away. 

Feverishly he seized pen and paper and began 
to wonder what to write. 

II 

It was near the Albert Memorial that the great 
inspiration came to him some weeks later. Those 
had been weeks of mingled hope and despair; of 
hope as he had fondled again his treasured books 
and read their titles, or gazed at the photograph 
of Mary; of despair as he had taken off his belt 
and counted out his rapidly-decreasing stock of 
money, or reflected that he was as far from com- 
pleting his novel as ever. Sometimes in the search 
for an idea he had frequented the restaurants 
where the great Samuel Johnson himself had eaten, 
and sometimes he had frequented other restau- 
rants where even the great Samuel Johnson him- 



42 THE SUNNY SIDE 

self had been unable to eat. Often he had gone 
into the British Museum and leant against a 
mummy-case, or taken a 'bus to Chelsea and 
pressed his forehead against the brass-plate which 
marked Carlyle's house, but no inspiration had 
come. And then suddenly, quite close to the 
Albert Memorial, he knew. 

He would write a novel about a boy called Wil- 
liam who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to 
London and wrote a novel, a novel of which "The 
Westminster Gazette" said: "This novel un- 
doubtedly places the author in the front rank of 
living novelists." William's novel would be a 
realistic account of — yes, that was it — of a boy 
called Henry, who had lived in Cornwall, and who 
came to London and wrote a novel, a novel of 
which "The Morning Post" said: "By this novel 
the author has indubitably established his claim 
to be reckoned among the few living novelists who 
count." But stay! What should this novel of 
Henry's be about? It would be necessarj^ to 
describe it. For an hour he WTCstled with the 
problem, and then he had another inspiration. 
Henry's novel would be about a boy called Thomas 
who had lived in Cornwall and who came to Lon- 
don and wrote a novel ( about a boy called Stephen 
who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to Lon- 
don and wrote a novel [about a boy called Michael 
who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to Lon- 
don and wrote a novel (about a boy called Peter, 
who had lived in Cornwall, and ...)]}... 



MEN OF LETTERS 43 

And so on. 

And every one of the novels would establish 
the author's right to be reckoned, etc., and place 
him undoubtedly in the very front rank. 

It was a stupendous idea. For a moment John 
was almost paralysed at contemplation of it. 
There seemed to be no end to his novel as he had 
planned it. Was it too much for his powers .^^ 

There was only one way to find out. He hur- 
ried back to his bed-sitting-room, seized a pen 
and began to write. 

Ill 

It was two years later. For the last fortnight 
John Penquarto had stopped counting the money 
in his belt. There was none left. For a fortnight 
now he had been living on the belt itself. 

But a great hope had always sustained him. 
One day he would hear from the pablisher to whom 
he had sent his novel a year ago. 

And now at last the letter had come, and he was 
seated in the office of the great Mr. Pump himself. 
His heart beat rapidly. He felt suffocated. 

"Well, Mr. Penquarto," said the smiling pub- 
lisher, "I may say at once that we like your novel. 
We should have written before, but we have only 
just finished reading it. It is a little long — about 
two million eight hundred thousand words, I 
reckon it — but I have a suggestion to make which 
will meet that difficulty. I suggest that we pub- 



44 THE SUNNY SIDE 

lish it in half a dozen volumes, stopping, for the 
first volume, at the Press notices of (say) Peter's 
novel. We find that the public likes these continu- 
ous books. About terms. We will send an agree- 
ment along to-morrow. Naturally, as this is a 
first book, we can only pay a nominal sum on ac- 
count of royalties. Say ten thousand pounds. 
How will that suit you.'^" 

With a heart still beating John left the office five 
minutes later and bought a new belt. Then he 
went to a restaurant where Goldsmith had never 
been and ordered a joint and two veg. Success 
had come! 

IV 

I SHOULD like to dwell upon the weeks which fol- 
lowed. I should like to tell of John's emotion 
when he saw his first proofs and of the printer's 
emotion when he saw what a mess John had made 
of them. I should like to describe how my hero's 
heart beat during the anxious days of waiting; to 
picture to you his pride at the arrival of his six 
free copies, and his landlady's surprise when he 
presented her with one. Above all, I should like 
to bring home to you the eagerness with which he 
bought and opened "The Times Literary Sup- 
plement" and read his first review: 

'"William Trewulliam— The First Phase.' By 
John Penquarto, 7^ by 5|, 896 pp., Albert Pump. 
9s. n." 



MEN OF LETTERS 46 

I have no time to go into these matters, nor have 
I time in which to give at length his later Press 
cuttings, in which there was displayed a unanim- 
ity of opinion that John Penquarto was now in 
the front rank of living novelists, one of the limited 
number whose work really counted. I must hurry 
on. 

It was a week after the publication of "William 
Trewulliam," the novel which had taken all Lon- 
don by storm. In all the drawing-rooms of May- 
fair, in all the clubs of Pall Mall, people were 
asking each other, "Who is John Penquarto?" 
Nobody knew — save one. 

Lady Mary knew. It was not the name Pen- 
quarto which had told her; it was — yes, you have 
guessed — the scene at the beginning of the book, 
when William Trewulliam meets the little Anne 
and shares his last raspberry -drop with her. Even 
under this disguise she recognized that early meet- 
ing. She pierced beneath the imagination of the 
novelist to the recollection of the man. John 
Penquarto — of course! Now she remembered the 
name. 

It had always been a mystery to her friends why 
Lady Mary had never married. No girl in Society 
had been more eagerly courted. It was whispered 
that already she had refused more than one Arch- 
bishop, three Newspaper Proprietors and a couple 
of Dukes. Something, she scarcely knew what, 
told her that this was not love. She must wait. 
As she dressed to go to the Duchess of Bilberry's 



46 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"At Home," she wondered if she would ever meet 
John Penquarto again, and if he had altered. 

"Mary!" 

It was John speaking. He had seen her the 
moment she came in at the door. Something — 
was it the Duchess's champagne at dinner? — had 
reminded him of the acid-drop they had eaten 
together and this had brought back his memories 
in a flood. To-night he would meet her again. 
He knew it instinctively. Besides, it was like 
this that William Trewulliam had met Anne again, 
and Henry Polhenery had met Sarah, and Thomas 
Pentummas had met Alice, and — well, anyhow 
he knew. 

"John!" 

It was Mary speaking. Perhaps you had 
guessed. 

"You knew me?" (This is John. It was his 
turn.) 

"I knew you." (Said Mary.) 

"Do you remember " 

Mary blushed, and John did not deviate from 
the healthy red colour which he had maintained 
throughout the conversation. In spite of his 
success he was never quite at ease in society at 
this period of his life. Nor were Henry Polhenery 
and Thomas Pentummas. They remained hand- 
some but awkward, which was why women loved 
them so. 

"I love you," (John speaking.) 



MEN OF LETTERS 47 

"I think I must have always loved you." 
(Mary going it.) 

He took her hand in his. 

Nobody noticed them. They were as much 
alone as if they had been at the National Gallery 
together. Many of the guests were going through 
similar scenes of recognition and love-making; 
others were asking each other if they had read 
"William Trewulliam" yet, and lying about it 
others again were making for the buffet. John 
and Mary had the world to themselves. . . . 



They were married a month later. John, who did 
not look his best in a frock-coat, had pleaded for a 
quiet wedding, and only the Duchess of Bilberry 
and Mr. Pump were present at the simple cere- 
mony which took place at the Bloomsbury reg- 
istry-office. Then the happy couple drove away. 

And where are they spending the honeymoon? 

Ah, do you need to ask.^* 

"At Greenwich .f*" No, fathead, not at Green- 
wich. 

"At Clacton-on-Sea?" Look here, I don't 
believe you're trying. Have another shot. . . . 

Yes, dear reader, you are right. They are going 
back to Polwollop. 

It might be a good plan to leave them there. 



48 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE COMPLETE DRAMATIST 

ITAKIE it that every able-bodied man and 
woman in this country wants to write a play. 
Since the news first got about that Orlando 
What's-his-name made £50,000 out of "The Crim- 
son Sponge," there has been a feeling that only 
through the medium of the stage can literary art 
find its true expression. The successful play- 
wright is indeed a man to be envied. Leaving 
aside for the moment the question of super-tax, 
the prizes which fall to his lot are worth something 
of an effort. He sees his name (correctly spelt) 
on 'buses which go to such different spots as 
Hammersmith and West Norwood, and his name 
(spelt incorrectly) beneath the photograph of 
somebody else in "The Illustrated Butler," He 
is a welcome figure at the garden-parties of the 
elect, who are always ready to encourage him by 
accepting free seats for his play; actor-managers 
nod to him; editors allow him to contribute with- 
out charge to a symposium on the price of golf 
balls. In short he becomes a "prominent figure 
in London Society" — and, if he is not careful, 
somebody will say so. 

But even the unsuccessful dramatist has his 
moments, I knew a young man who married 
somebody else's mother, and was allowed by her 



MEN OF LETTERS 49 

fourteen gardeners to amuse himself sometimes by 
rolling the tennis-court. It was an unsatisfying 
life; and when rash acquaintances asked him 
what he did, he used to say that he was for the 
Bar. Now he says he is writing a play — and we 
look round the spacious lawns and terraces and 
marvel at the run his last one must have had. 

However, I assume that you who read this are 
actually in need of the dibs. Your play must be 
not merely a good play, but a successful one. How 
shall this success be achieved .^^ 

Frankly I cannot always say. If you came to 
me and said, "I am on the Stock Exchange, and 
bulls are going down," or up, or sideways, or what- 
ever it might be; "there's no money to be made 
in the City nowadays, and I want to write a play 
instead. How shall I do it?" — well, I couldn't 
help you. But suppose you said, "I'm fond of 
writing; my people always say my letters home 
are good enough for 'Punch.' I've got a little 
idea for a play about a man and a woman and an- 
other woman, and — but perhaps I'd better keep 
the plot a secret for the moment. Anyhow it's 
jolly exciting, and I can do the dialogue all right. 
The only thing is, I don't know anything about 
technique and stagecraft and the three unities and 
that sort of rot. Can you give me a few hints .^^ " — 
suppose you spoke to me like this, then I could do 
something for you. "My dear Sir," I should 
reply (or Madam), "you have come to the right 
shop. Lend me your ear for ten minutes, and 



50 THE SUNNY SIDE 

you shall learn just what stagecraft is." And I 
should begin with a short homily on 

SOLILOQUY 

If you ever read your "Shakespeare" — and no 
dramatist should despise the works of another 
dramatist; he may always pick up something in 
them which may be useful for his next play — if 
you ever read your "Shakespeare," it is possible 
that you have come across this passage: 

''Enter Hamlet. 
Ham. To be, or not to be " 



And so on in the same vein for some thirty lines. 

These few remarks are called a soliloquy, being 
addressed rather to the world in general than to 
any particular person on the stage. Now the ob- 
ject of this soliloquy is plain. The dramatist 
wished us to know the thoughts which were pass- 
ing through Hamlet's mind, and it was the only 
way he could think of in which to do it. Of 
course, a really good actor can often give a clue 
to the feelings of a character simply by facial 
expression. There are ways of shifting the eye- 
brows, distending the nostrils, and exploring the 
lower molars with the tongue by which it is possi- 
ble to denote respectively Surprise, Defiance and 
Doubt. Indeed, irresolution being the keynote 



MEN OF LETTERS 51 

of Hamlet's soliloquy, a clever player could to some 
extent indicate the whole thirty lines by a silent 
working of the jaw. But at the same time it 
would be idle to deny that he would miss the finer 
shades of the dramatist's meaning. "The inso- 
lence of office, and the spurns" — to take only one 
line — would tax the most elastic face. 

So the soliloquy came into being. We moderns, 
however, see the absurdity of it. In real life no 
one thinks aloud or in an empty room. The up- 
to-date dramatist must certainly avoid this hall- 
mark of the old-fashioned play. 

What, then, is to be done? If it be granted, first, 
that the thoughts of a certain character should 
be known to the audience, and, secondly, that 
soliloquy, or the habit of thinking aloud, is in 
opposition to modern stage technique, how shall 
a soliloquy be avoided without damage to the play? 

Well, there are more ways than one; and now 
we come to what is meant by stagecraft. Stage- 
craft is the art of getting over these and other 
difficulties, and (if possible) getting over them 
in a showy manner, so that people will say, "How 
remarkable his stagecraft is for so young a writer," 
when otherwise they mightn't have noticed it at 
all. Thus, in this play we have been talking about, 
an easy way of avoiding Hamlet's soliloquy would 
be for Ophelia to speak first. 

Oj)h. What are you thinking about, my lord? 

Ham. I am wondering whether to be or not to 
be, whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 



Bi THE SUNNY SIDE 

And so on, till you get to the end, when Ophelia 
might say, "Ah, yes," or something non-committal 
of that sort. This would be an easy way of 
doing it, but it would not be the best way, for the 
reason that it is too easy to call attention to itself. 
What you want is to make it clear that you are 
conveying Hamlet's thoughts to the audience in 
rather a clever manner. 

That this can now be done we have to thank 
the well-known inventor of the telephone. (I 
forget his name.) The telephone has revolution- 
ized the stage; with its aid you can convey any- 
thing you like across the footlights. In the old 
badh'-made play it was frequently necessarj^ for 
one of the characters to take the audience into 
his confidence. "Having disposed of my uncle's 
body," he would say to the stout lady in the third 
row of the stalls, "I now have leisure in which to 
search for the will. But first to lock the door lest 
I should be interrupted by Harold Wotnott." 
In the modern well-constructed play he simply 
rings up an imaginary confederate and tells him 
what he is going to do. Could anything be more 
natural ? 

Let us, to give an example of how this method 
works, go back again to the play we have been 
discussing. 

Enter Hamlet. He walks quickly across the room 
to the telephone, and takes up the receiver im- 
patiently. 
Ham. Hallo! Hallo! I want double-nine — 



MEN OF LETTERS 53 

ha\-lo! I want double-nine two — haI-/o/ Double- 
nine two three, Elsinore. . . . T)ouh\e-nine, yes. 
. . . Hallo, is that you, Horatio? Hamlet speak- 
ing. I say, I've been wondering about this busi- 
ness. To be or not to be, that is the question; 
whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the 
slings and arrows What? No, Hamlet speak- 
ing. What? Aren't you Horatio? I want double- 
nine two three — sorry. ... Is that you, Ex- 
change? You gave me double-five, I want double- 
nine. . . . Hallo, is that you, Horatio? Hamlet 
speaking. I've been wondering about this busi- 
ness. To be or not to be, that is the What? 

No, I said. To be or not to be ... . No, "be" — 
b-e. Yes, that's right. To be or not to be, that 
is the question; whether 'tis nobler 

And so on. You see how effective it is. 

But there is still another way of avoiding the 
soliloquy, which is sometimes used with good 
results. It is to let Hamlet, if that happen to be 
the name of your character, enter with a small 
dog, pet falcon, mongoose, tame bear or whatever 
animal is most in keeping with the part, and con- 
fide in this animal such sorrows, hopes or secret 
history as the audience has got to know. This 
has the additional advantage of putting the audi- 
ence immediately in sympathy with your hero. 
"How sweet of him," all the ladies say, "to tell his 
little bantam about it! " 

If you are not yet tired (as I am) of the 
Prince of D^imark, I will explain (for the last 



54 THE SUNNY SIDE 

time) how a modern author might re-write his 
speech. 

Enter Hamlet with his favourite boar-hound. 

Ham. {to B.-H.). To be or not to be — ah, Fido, 
Fido! That is the question — eh, old Fido, boy? 
Whether 'tis nobler in — how now, a rat! 
Rats, Fido, fetch 'em — in the mind to suffer 
The slings and — doivn, Sir! — arrows — put it down! 
Arrows of — drop it, Fido; good old dog 

And so on. Which strikes me as rather sweet 
and natural. 

Let us now pass on to the very important question 
of 

EXITS AND ENTRANCES 

To the young playwright, the diflSculty of getting 
his characters on to the stage would seem much 
less than the difficulty of finding them something 
to say when they are there. He writes gaily and 
without hesitation "Enter Lord Arthur Fluffinose," 
and only then begins to bite the end of his pen- 
holder and gaze round his library for inspiration. 
Yet it is on that one word "Enter" that his repu- 
tation for dramatic technique will hang. Why 
did Lord Arthur Fluffinose enter.? The obvious 
answer, that the firm which is mentioned in the 
programme as suppljang his trousers would be 
annoyed if he didn't, is not enough; nor is it 
enough to say that the whole plot of the piece 
hinges on him, and that without him the drama 
would languish. What the critic wants to know 



MEN OF LETTERS 55 

is why Lord Arthur chose that very moment to 
come in — the very moment when Lady Larkspur 
was left alone in the oak-beamed hall of Larkspur 
Towers. Was it only a coincidence? And if the 
young dramatist answers callously, "Yes," it 
simply shows that he has no feeling for the stage 
whatever. In that case I needn't go on with this 
article. 

However, it will be more convenient to assume, 
dear reader, that in your play Lord Arthur had 
a good reason for coming in. If that be so, he 
must explain it. It won't do to write like this: — 
Enter Lord Arthur. Lady Larkspur starts sud- 
denly and turns towards him. 
Lady Larkspur, Arthur! You here.f^ (He gives 
a nod of confirmatiori. She pauses a moment, and 
then ivith a sudden passionate movement flings her- 
self into his arms.) Take me away, Arthur. I 
can't bear this life any longer. Larkspur bit me 
again this morning for the third time. I want to 
get away from it all. [Sivoons. 

The subsequent scene may be so pathetic that 
on the hundredth night it is still bringing tears to 
the eyes of the fireman, but you must not expect 
to be treated as a serious dramatist. You will 
see this for yourself if you consider the passage as 
it should properly have been written: — 
Enter Lord Arthur Fluflfinose. Lady Larkspur 
looks at him with amazement. 
Lady Larkspur, Arthur, what are you doing 
here? 



66 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Lord Arthur. I caught the 2.3 from town. It 
gets in at 3.37, and I walked over from the station. 
It's only a mile. {At this 'point he looks at the 
grandfather clock in the corner, and the audience, 
following his eyes, sees that it is seven minutes to 
four, which appears delightfully natural.) I came 
to tell Larkspur to sell Bungoes. They are going 
down. 

Lady Larkspur (folding her hands over her chest 
and gazing broodingly at the footlights) . Larkspur ! 

Lord Arthur (anxiously). What is it.'^ (Sud- 
denly.) Has he been ill-treating you again .'^ 

Lady Larkspur (flinging herself into his arms). 
Oh, Arthur, Arthur, take me away! 

And so on. 

But it may well be that Lord Larkspur has an 
intrigue of his own with his secretary. Miss De- 
vereux, and, if their big scene is to take place on the 
stage too, the hall has got to be cleared for them 
in some way. Your natural instinct will be to say, 
"Exeunt Fluffinose and Lady Larkspur, R. Enter 
Lord Larkspur and Miss Devereux, X." This is 
very immature, even if you are quite clear as to 
which side of the stage is L. and which is R. You 
must make the evolutions seem natural. Thus: — 
Enter from the left Miss Devereux. She stops in 

surprise at seeing Lord Arthur and holds out her 

hand. 

Miss D. Why, Lord Arthur! Wliatever 

Lord A. How d'you do.^^ I've just run down to 
tell Lord Larkspur to 



MEN OF LETTERS 57 

Miss D. He's in the library. At least he- 



Lord A. {taking out his watch.) Ah, then per- 
haps I'd better 

[Exit by door on left. 

Miss D. (to Lady L.). Have you seen "The 
Times" about here? There is a set of verses in 
the Financial Supplement which Lord Larkspur 

wanted to {She wanders vaguely round the room. 

Enter Lord Larkspur by door at back.) Why, here 
you are! I've just sent Lord Arthur into the li- 
brary to 

Lord L. I went out to speak to the gardener 
about 

Lady L. Ah, then I'll go and tell Arthur 



[Exit to library, leaving Miss Devereux and Lord 

Larkspur alone. 

And there you are. You will, of course, appre- 
ciate that the unfinished sentences not only save 
time, but also make the manoeuvring very much 
more natural. 

So far I have been writing as if you were already 
in the thick of your play; but it may well be that 
the enormous difficulty of getting the first char- 
acter on has been too much for you. How, you 
may be wondering, are you to begin your master- 
piece? 

The answer to this will depend upon the length 
of the play, for upon the length depends the hour 
at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15 
play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill 
up till 8.30, and you should therefore let loose the 



58 THE SUNNY SIDE 

lesser-paid members of the cast on the opening 
scene, keeping your fifty-pounders in reserve. In 
an 8.45 play the nudience may be plunged into the 
drama at once. But this is much the more diffi- 
cult thing to do, and for the beginner I should 
certainly recommend the 8.15 play, for which the 
recipe is simple. 

As soon as the lights go down, and while the 
bald, stout gentleman is kicking our top-hat out 
of his way, treading heavily on our toes and wheez- 
ing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a 
buzz begins behind the curtain. What the play- 
ers are saying is not distinguishable, but a merry 
girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by 
the short sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of 
the world. Then the curtain rises, and it is ap- 
parent that we are assisting at an At Home of 
considerable splendour. Most of the characters 
seem to be on the stage, and for once we do not 
ask how they got there. We presume they have 
all been invited. Thus you have had no difliculty 
with your entrances. 

As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the 
jyiano. 

The Bishop of Sploshington. Charming. Quite 
one of my favourites. Do play it again. {Relap- 
ses into silence for the rest of the evening.) 

The Duchess of Southbridge {to Lord Reggie). 
Oh, Reggie, what did you say.'^ 

Lord Reggie {putting up his eyeglass). Said I'd 
bally well — top-hole — what.'^ — don'cherknow. 



MEN OF LETTERS 59 

Lady Evangeline (to Lady Violet, as they walk 
across the stage). Oh, I miist tell you what that 
funny Mr. Danby said. (Doesn't. Lady Violet, 
none the less, trills with happy laughter.) 

Prince von Ichdien, the well-known Ambassador 
(loudly, to an unnamed gentleman). What your 

country ought to do (He finishes his remarks 

in the lip-language, which the unnamed gentleman 
seems to understand. At any rate he nods several 
times.) 

There is more girlish laughter, more buzz and more 
deaf-and-dumb language. Then 

Lord Tuppeny. Well, what about auction? 

Amid murmurs of "You'll play, Field-Marshal?" 
and "Auction, Archbishop?" the crowd drifts off, 
leaving the hero and heroine alone in the middle of the 
stage. 

And then you can begin. 

But now I must give you a warning. You will 
never be a dramatist until you have learnt the 
technique of 

MEALS 

In spite of all you can do in the way of avoiding 
soililoquies and getting your characters on and 
off the stage in a dramatic manner, a time will 
come when you realize sadly that your play is not 
a bit like life after all. Then is the time to intro- 
duce a meal on the stage. A stage meal is popu- 
lar, because it proves to the audience that the 



60 THE SUNNY SIDE 

actors, even when called Charles Hawtrey or 
Owen Nares, are real people just like you and me. 
"Look at Mr. Bourchier eating," we say excitedly 
to each other in the pit, having had a vague idea 
up till then that an actor lived like a god on praise 
and greasepaint and his photograph in the papers. 
"Another cup, won't you?" says Miss Gladys 
Cooper; "No, thank you," says Mr. Dennis Eadie 
— dash it, it's exactly what we do at home our- 
selves. And when, to clinch matters, the dramatist 
makes Mr. Gerald du Maurier light a real cigarette 
in the Third Act, then he can flatter himself that 
he has indeed achieved the ambition of every stage 
writer, and "brought the actual scent of the hay 
across the footlights." 

But there is a technique to be acquired in this 
matter as in everything else within the theatre. 
The great art of the stage-craftsman, as I have 
already shown, is to seem natural rather than to be 
natural. Let your actors have tea by all means, 
but see that it is a properly histrionic tea. This 
is how it should go: — 

Hostess. How do you do? You'll have some 
tea, won't you? [Rings bell. 

Guest. Thank you. 

Enter Butler. 

Hostess. Tea, please, Matthews. 

Butler {impassively). Yes, m'lady. {This is all 
he says during the play, so he must try and get a little 
character into it, in order that "The Era" may re- 



MEN OF LETTERS 61 

mark, "Mr. Thompson was excellent as Matthews." 
However, his part is not over yet, for he returns imme- 
diately, followed by three footmen — just as it hap- 
pened when you last called on the Duchess — and sets 
out the tea.) 

Hostess {holding up the property lump of sugar in 
the tongs). Sugar? 

Guest {luckily). No, thanks. 

Hostess replaces lump and inclines empty teapot 
over tray for a moment; then hands him a cup 
painted brown inside — thus deceiving the gentleman 
vyith the telescope in the upper circle. 

Guest {touching his lips with the cup and then 
returning it to its saucer). Well, I must be going. 

Re-enter Butler and three Footmen, who remove 
the tea-things. 

Hostess {to Guest). Good-bye; so glad you 
could come. [Exit Guest. 

His visit has been short, but it has been very 
thrilling while it lasted. 

Tea is the most usual meal on the stage, for the 
reason that it is the least expensive, the property 
lump of sugar being dusted and used again on the 
next night. For a stage dinner a certain amount 
of genuine sponge-cake has to be made up to look 
like fish, chicken or cutlet. In novels the hero 
has often "pushed his meals away un tasted," but 
no stage hero would do anything so unnatural as 
this. The etiquette is to have two bites before 
the butler and the three footmen whisk away the 
plate. Two bites are made, and the bread is 



62 THE SUNNY SIDE 

crumbled, with an air of great eagerness; Indeed, 
one feels that in real life the guest would clutch 
hold of the footman and say, "Half a mo', old 
chap, I haven't nearly finished"; but the actor 
is better schooled than this. Besides, the thing 
is coming back again as chicken directly. 

But it is the cigarette which chiefly has brought 
the modern drama to its present state of perfection. 
Without the stage cigarette many an epigram 
would pass unnoticed, many an actor's hands 
would be much more noticeable; and the man 
who works the fireproof safety curtain would lose 
even the small amount of excitement which at 
present attaches to his job. i 

Now although it is possible, in the case of a few 
men at the top of the profession, to leave the con- 
duct of the cigarette entirely to the actor, you 
will find it much more satisfactory to insert in the 
stage directions the particular movements (with 
match and so forth) that you wish carried out. 
Let us assume that Lord Arthur asks Lord John 
what a cynic is— the question of what a cynic is 
having arisen quite naturally in the course of the 
plot. Let us assume further that you wish Lord 
John to reply, "A cynic is a man who knows the 
price of everything and the value of nothing," 
It has been said before, but you may feel that it 
is quite time it was said again; besides, for all the 
audience knows. Lord John may simply be quoting. 
Now this answer, even if it comes quite fresh to 
the stalls, will lose much of its effect if it is said 



MEN OF LETTERS 63 

without the assistance of a cigarette. Try it for 
yourself. 

Lord John. A cynic is a man who, etc. . . . 

Rotten. Now try again. 

Lord John. A cynic is a man who, etc. . . . 
{Lights cigarette.) 

No, even that is not good. Once more: — 

Lord John {lighting cigarette). A cynic is a man 
who, etc. 

Better, but leaves too much to the actor. 

Well, I see I must tell you. 

Lord John {taking out gold cigarette case from his 
left-hand upper waistcoat pocket). A cynic, my 
dear Arthur {he opens case deliberately, puts ciga- 
rette in mouth, and extracts gold match-box from 
right-hand trouser) is a man who {strikes match) 
knows the price of {lights cigarette) — everything, 
and {standing loith match in one hand and cigarette 

in the other) the value of pff {blows out match) 

of {inhales deeply from cigarette and blows out a 
cloud of smoke) — nothing. 

It makes a different thing of it altogether. Of 
course on the actual night the match may refuse 
to strike, and Lord John may have to go on saying 
"a man who — a man who — a man who" until the 
ignition occurs, but even so it will still seem 
delightfully natural to the audience (as if he were 
making up the epigram as he went along); while 
as for blowing the match out, he can hardly fail 
to do that in one. 

The cigarette, of course, will be smoked at other 



64 THE SUNNY SIDE 

moments than epigrammatic ones, but on these 
other occasions you will not need to deal so fully 
with it in the stage directions. ''Duke {lighting 
cigarette). I trust, Perkins, that . . ." is enough. 
You do not want to say, "'Duke {dropping ash on 
trousers). It seems to me, my love . . ." or, 
*' Duke {removing stray piece of tobacco from tongue). 
What Ireland needs is . . ."; still less "Duke 
{throwing away end of cigarette). Show him in." 
For this must remain one of the mysteries of the 
stage — What happens to the stage cigarette when 
it has been puffed four times.'' The stage tea, of 
which a second cup is always refused; the stage 
cutlet, which is removed with the connivance of 
the guest after two mouthfuls; the stage ciga- 
rette, which nobody ever seems to want to smoke 
to the end — thinking of these as they make their 
appearances in the houses of the titled, one would 
say that the hospitality of the peerage was not a 
thing to make any great rush for. . . . 

But that would be to forget the butler and the 
three footmen. Even a Duke cannot have every- 
thing. And what his chef may lack in skill his 
butler more than makes up for in impassivity. 



MEN OF LETTERS 65 



A POETRY RECITAL 

IT has always been the privilege of Art to be 
patronized by Wealth and Rank. Indeed, if 
we literary and artistic strugglers were not 
asked out to afternoon tea sometimes by our 
millionaire acquaintances, it is doubtful if we 
should be able to continue the struggle. Recently 
a new (and less expensive) method of entertaining 
Genius has become fashionable in the best circles, 
and the aspiring poet is now invited to the house 
of the Great, not for the purpose of partaking of 
bodily refreshment himself, but in order that he 
may afford spiritual refreshment to others. In 
short, he is given an opportunity of reciting his 
own works in front of the Fair, the Rich and the 
Highly Born, and making what he can out of it 
in the way of advertisement. 

Let us imagine that we have been lucky enough 
to secure an invitation to one of Lady Poldoodle's 
Poetry At-Homes, at her charming little house in 
Berkeley Square. 

The guests are all waiting, their eyes fixed in 
eager anticipation on the black-covered throne at 
the farther end of the room, whereon each poet 
will sit to declaim his masterpiece, when suddenly 
Lord Poldoodle is observed to be making his way 
cautiously towards a side-door. Fortunately he 



66 THE SUNNY SIDE 

is stopped in time, and dragged back to his seat 
next to the throne, from which he rises a moment 
later to open the proceeding. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "we are met 
here this afternoon in order to hsten to some of 
our younger poets who will recite from their own 
works. So far, I have always managed to avoid 
— so far, I have been unavoidably prevented from 
attending on these occasions, but I understand 
that the procedure is as follows. Each poet will 
recite a short sample of his poetry, after which, 
no doubt, you will go home and order from your 
bookseller a complete set of his works." 

Lady Poldoodle goes quickly over to him and 
whispers vigorously. 

"I find I am wrong," says our host. "Full sets 
of the author's works can be obtained on the way 
out. There is, however, no compulsion in the 
matter, and, if you take my advice — well, well, 
let us get on. Our first poet" — here he puts on 
his glasses, and reads from a paper on the table 
in front of him — "is Mr. Sydney Worple, of whom 
you — er — have — er — doubtless all heard. At any 
rate you will hear him now. " 

Mr. Sydney Worple, tall and thin, wearing 
the sort of tie which makes you think you must 
have seen him before, steps forward amidst ap- 
plause. He falls back into the throne as if 
deep in thought, and passes a hand across his hair. 

Mr. Worple {very suddenly) " Dawn at Sur- 
biton." 



MEN OF LETTERS 67 

*' Where?" says a frightened voice at the back. 

"H'sh!" says Lady Poldoodle in a whisper. 
"Surbiton." 

I "Surbiton" is passed round the back seats. 
Not that it is going to matter in the least. 

Mr. Worple repeats the title, and then recites in 
an intense voice these lines: 

Out of the nethermost bonds of night. 

Out of the gloom where the bats' wings brush me, 
Free from the crepitous doubts which crush me. 

Forth I fare to the cool sunlight; 

Forth to a world where the wind sweeps clean. 

Where the smooth-limbed ash to the blue stands bare. 
And the gossamer spreads her opalled ware — 

And Jones is catching the 8.15. 

After several more verses like this he bows and 
retires. Lady Poldoodle, still mechanically clap- 
ping, says to her neighbour: 

"How beautiful! Dawn at Surbiton! Such a 
beautiful idea, I think." 

"Wasn't it sublime?" answers the neighbour. 
"The wonderful contrast between the great 
pageant of nature and poor Mr. Jones, catching — 
always catching — the 8.15." 

But Lord Poldoodle is rising again. "Our next 
poet," he says, "is Miss Miranda Herrick, whose 
work is so distinguished for its — er — its — er — 
distinction." 

Miss Herrick, dressed in pale green and wearing 
pincenez, flutters in girlishly. She gives a nervous 



68 THE SUNNY SIDE 

little giggle, pushes out her foot, withdraws it and 
begins : 

When I take my bath in the morning 

The audience wakes up with a start. "When 
you take your what! " says Lord Poldoodle. 

Miss Herrick begins again, starting this time 
with the title. 

LIFE 

When I take my bath in the morning. 
When I strip for the cool dehght. 

And the housemaid brings 

Me towels an<l things. 
Do I reck of the coming night? 

A materially-minded man whispers to his 
neighbour that he always wonders what's for 
breakfast. "H'sh ! " she says, for there is another 
verse to come. 

When my hair comes down in the evening. 
And my tired clothes swoon to the ground. 

Do I bother my head. 

As I leap in bed. 
Of the truth which the dawn brings round? 

In the uncomfortable pause which follows, a 
voice is heard saying, "Does she.f*" and Lady 
Poldoodle asks kindly, "Is that all, dear?" 

"What more could there be?" says Miss Her- 
rick with a sigh. "What more is there to say? 
It is Life." 



MEN OF LETTERS 69 

"Life! How true!" says the hostess. "But 
won't you give us something else? That one ended 
so very suddenly." 

After much inward (and outward) wrestlmg 
Miss Herrick announces: 



A THOUGHT 

The music falls across the vale 
From nightingale to nightingale; 
The owl within the ivied tree 
Makes love to me, makes love to me; 
But all the tadpoles in the pond 
Are dumb — however fond. 

"I begin to think that there is something in a 
tadpole after all," murmurs Lord Poldoodle to 
himself, as the author wriggles her way out. 

"After all," says one guest to another, "why 
shouldn't a tadpole make love as much as anybody 
else.'^" 

"I think," says her neighbour, "that the idea 
is of youth trjang vainly to express itself — or am 
I thinking of caterpillars? Lord Poldoodle, what 
is a tadpole exactly?" 

"A tadpole," he answers decisively, "is an ex- 
tremely immature wriggling creature, which is, 
quite rightly, dumb." 

Now steps forward Mr. Horatio Bullfinch, full 
of simple enthusiasm, one of the London school. 
He gives us his famous poem, "Berkeley Square." 



70 THE SUNNY SIDE 

The men who come from the north country 

Are tall and very fair, 
The men who come from the south country 

Have hardly any hair. 
But the only men m the world for me 

Are the men of Berkeley Square. 

The sun may shme at Colchester, 

The rain may rain at Penge; 
From low-hung skies the dawn may rise 

Broodingly on Stonehenge. 
Knee-deep in clover the lambs at Dover 

Nibble awhile and stare; 
But there's only one place in the world for me, 

Berkeley — Berkeley Square. 

And so on, down to that magnificent last verse: 

The skylark triumphs from the blue, 
Above the barley fields at Loo, 
The blackbird whistles loud and clear 
Upon the hills at Windermere; 
But oh, I simply LOVE the way 
Our organ-grinder plays all day! 

Lord Poldoodle rises to introduce Mr. Montagu 
Mott. 

"Mr. Mott, " he says, "is, I am told, our leading 
exponent of what is called vers libre, which means 
— well, you will see what it means directly." 

Mr. Mott, a very ugly little man, who tries to 
give you the impression that he is being ugly on 
purpose, and could easily be beautiful if he were 
not above all that sort of thing, announces the 
title of his masterpiece. It is called "Why Is the 



MEN OF LETTERS 71 

Fat Woman's Face So Red?" Well, what else 
could you call it? 

Why is the fat woman's face so red? 
Is it because her stays are too tight? 
Or because she wants to sneeze and has lost her 

pocket handkerchief? 
Or only because her second son 
(The engineer) 
Is dying of cancer. 
I cannot be certain. 
Yet I sit here and ask myself 
Wonderingly 
Why is the fat woman's face so red? 

It Is generally recognized that, in Mr. Mott, we 
have a real poet. There are loud cries of "En- 
core!" Mr. Mott shakes his head. 

"I have written no more," he says in a deep 
voice. "I have given you the result of three 
years' work. Perhaps — in another three years 

" He shrugs his shoulders and walks gloom- 

ingly out. 

"Such a sweet idea," says Lady Poldoodle. 
"I sit here and ask myself — wonderingly! How 
true! How very true ! " 

"I couldn't quite follow it, dear," says her 
neighbour frankly. "Did he marry her after all? " 

Lord Poldoodle, looking slightly more cheerful, 
gets once more on to his legs. 

"You will all be very glad to hear — ah — you 
will all be sorry to hear that we have only one 
more poet on our list this afternoon. Mr. Cecil 
Willow, the well-known — er — poet." 



72 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Mr. Willow, a well-dressed young man, fair and 
rather stout, and a credit to any drawing-room, 
announces the subject of his poem — Liberty. 

"Liberty, what crimes have been committed 
in thy name!" murmurs Lord Poldoodle to 
himself. 

LIBERTY 

There were two thrushes in a tree. 
The one was tamed, the other free. 
Because his wings were cHpped so small 
The tame one did not fly at all, 
But sang to Heaven all the day — 
The other (shortly after) flew away. 

There were two women in a town, 

The one was blonde, the other brown. 

The brown one pleased a Viscount's son 

(Not Richard, but the other one) 

He gave her a delightful flat — 

The blonde one loved a man called Alfred Spratt. 

There were two Kings on thrones of gold. 

The one was young, the other old. 

The young one's laws were wisely made 

Till someone took a hand-grenade 

And threw it, shouting, "Down with Kings!" — 

The old one laid foundation stones and things. 

*' How delightful," says everybody. " How very 
delightful. Thank you. Lady Poldoodle, for such 
a delightful afternoon." 



MEN OF LETTERS 73 



THE PERILS OF REVIEWING 

A MOST unfortunate thing has happened to 
a friend of mine called to a friend of 
to a . Well, I suppose the truth 

will have to come out. It happened to me. Only 
don't tell anybody. 

I reviewed a book the other day. It is not often 
I do this, because before one can review a book 
one has to, or is supposed to, read it, which wastes 
a good deal of time. Even that isn't an end of 
the trouble. The article which follows is not 
really one's own, for the wretched fellow who 
wrote the book is always trying to push his way 
in with his views on matrimony, or the Sussex 
downs, or whatever his ridiculous subject is. He 
expects one to say, "Mr. Blank's treatment of 
Hilda's relations with her husband is masterly," 
whereas what one wants to say is, "Putting Mr. 
Blank's book on one side, we may consider the 

larger question, whether " and so consider it 

(alone) to the end of the column. 

Well, I reviewed Mr. Blank's book, "Rotun- 
dity." As I expected, the first draft had to be 
re-headed "A Corner of old London," and used 
elsewhere; Mr. Blank didn't get into it at all. 
I kept promising myself a sentence: "Take 
* Rotundity,' for instance, the new novel by 



74 THE SUNNY SIDE 

William Blank, which, etc." but before I was 
ready for it the article was finished. In my 
second draft, realizing the dangers of delay, I 
began at once, "This remarkable novel," and 
continued so for a couple of sentences. But on 
reading it through afterwards I saw at once that 
the first two sentences were out of place in an 
article that obviously ought to be called "The 
Last Swallow"; so I cut them out, sent "The Last 
Swallow: A Reverie" to another Editor, and 
began again. The third time I was successful. 

Of course in my review I said all the usual 
things. I said that Mr. Blank's attitude to life 
was "subjective rather than objective" . . . and 
a little lower down that it was "objective rather 
than subjective. " I pointed out that in his treat- 
ment of the major theme he was a neo-romanticist, 
but I suggested that, on the other hand, he had 
nothing to learn from the Russians — or the Rus- 
sians had nothing to learn from him; I forget 
which. And finally I said (and this is the cause 
of the whole trouble) that Antoine Vaurelle's 
world-famous classic — and I looked it up in the 
encyclopaedia — world-renowned classic, "Je Com- 
prends Tout," had been not without its influence 
on Mr. Blank. It was a good review, and the 
editor was pleased about it. 

A few days later Mr. Blank wrote to say that, 
curiously enough, he had never read "Je Com- 
prends Tout." It didn't seem to me very curious, 
because I had never read it either, but I thought 



MEN OF LETTERS 75 

it rather odd of him to confess as much to a 
stranger. The only book of Vaurelle's which I 
had read was "Consolatrice," in an EngHsh trans- 
lation. However, one doesn't say these things 
in a review. 

Now I have a French friend, Henri, one of those 
annoying Frenchmen who talk English much bet- 
ter than I do, and Henri, for some extraordinary 
reason, had seen my review. He has to live in 
London now, but his heart is in Paris; and I 
imagine that every word of his beloved language 
which appears, however casually, in an English 
paper mysteriously catches his eye and brings the 
scent and sounds of the boulevards to him across 
the coffee-cups. So, the next time I met him, he 
shook me warmly by the hand, and told me how 
glad he was that I was an admirer of Antoine 
Vaurelle's novels. 

"Who isn't.!^" I said with a shrug, and, to get 
the conversation on to safer ground, I added 
hastily that in some ways I almost liked "Con- 
solatrice" best. 

He shook my hand again. So did he. A great 
book. 

"But of course," he said, "one must read it in 
the original French. It is the book of all others 
which loses by translation." 

"Of course," I agreed. Really, I don't see 
what else I could have done. 

"Do you remember that wonderful phrase " 

and he rattled it off. "Magnificent, is it not.^*" 



76 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Magnificent," I said, remembering an appoint- 
ment instead. "Well, I must be getting on. 
Good-bye." And, as I walked off, I patted my 
forehead with my handkerchief and wondered 
why the day had grown so warm suddenly. 

However the next day was even warmer. Henri 
came to see me with a book under his arm. We 
all have one special book of our own which we 
recommend to our acquaintances, regarding the 
love of it as perhaps the best passport to our 
friendship. This was Henri's. He was about 
to test me. I had read and admired his favourite 
Vaurelle— in the original French. Would I love 
his darling Laforgucf^ My reputation as a man, 
as a writer, as a critic, depended on it. He 
handed me the book — in French. 

"It is all there," he said reverently, as he gave 
it to me. "All your English masters, they all 

come from him. Perhaps, most of all, your 

But you shall tell me when you have read it. You 
shall tell me whom most you seem to see there. 

Your Meredith.'^ Your Shaw.^^ Your But 

you shall tell me." 

"I will tell you," I said faintly. 

And I've got to tell him. 

Don't think that I shall have any difficulty in 
reading the book. Glancing through it just now 
I came across this : — 

"^Kate, avez-vous soupe avant le spectacle?' 

* Non, je rC avals guere le cceur a manger.'" 

Well, that's easy enough. But I doubt if it is 



MEN OF LETTERS 77 

one of the most characteristic passages. It 
doesn't give you a clue to Laforgue's manner, any 
more than " ' Must I sit here, mother? ' ' Yes, with- 
out a doubt you must,'" tells you all that you 
want to know about Meredith. There's more in 
it than that. 

And I've got to tell him. 

But fancy holding forth on an author's style 
after reading him laboriously with a dictionary! 

However, I must do my best; and in my more 
hopeful moments I see the conversation going 
like this:— 

"Well?" 

" Oh, wonderful." {With emotion) "Really won- 
derful." 

"You see them all there?" 

"Yes, yes. It's really— wonderful. Meredith 
— I mean — well, it's simply — (after a pause) won- 
derful." 

"You see Meredith there most?" 

"Y-yes. Sometimes. And then (with truth) 
sometimes I — I don't. It's difficult to say. 

Sometimes I — er — Shaw — er — well, it's " 

{idth a gesture somewhat Gallic) "How can I put 
it?" 

"Not Thackeray at all?" he says, watching me 
eagerly. 

I decide to risk it. 

"Oh, but of course! I mean — Thackeray! When 
I said Meredith I was thinking of the others. But 
Thackeray — I mean Thackeray is — er " (Fve 



78 THE SUNNY SIDE 

forgotten the author^ s name for the moment and go 
on hastily) I mean — er — Thackeray, obviously." 

He shakes me by the hand. I am his friend. 

But this conversation only takes place in my 
more hopeful moments. In my less hopeful ones 
I see myself going into the country for quite a long 
time. 



III. SUMMER DAYS 



SUMMER DAYS 
A SONG FOR THE SUMMER 

/*S it raining? Never mind — 
Think how much the birdies love it! 
See them in their dozens drawn, 
Dancing, to the croquet lawn — 
Could our little friends have dined 
If there'd been no worms above it? 

Is it murky? What of that. 
If the Owls are fairly perky? 

Just imagine you were one — 

Wouldn't you detest the sun? 

I'm pretending I'm a Bat, 
And I know I like it murky. 

Is it chilly? After all. 

We must not forget the Poodle. 
If the days were really hot, 
Could he wear one woolly spot? 
Could he even keep his shawl? 

No, he'd shave the whole caboodle. 
81 



&t THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE SEASON'S PROSPECTS 

THE great question in the Mallory family- 
just now is whether Dick will get into the 
eleven this year. Confident as he is him- 
self, he is taking no risks. 

"We're going to put the net up to-morrow," he 
said to me as soon as I arrived, "and then you'll 
be able to bowl to me. How long are you 
staying?" 

"Till to-night," I said quickly. 

"Rot! You're fixed up here till Tuesday any 
how." 

"My dear Dick, I've come down for a few days' 
rest. If the weather permits, I may have the 
croquet things out one afternoon and try a round, 
or possibly " 

"I don't believe you can bowl," said Bobby 
rudely, Bobby is twelve — five years younger 
than Dick. It is not my place to smack Bobby's 
head, but somebody might do it for him. 

"Then that just shows how little you know 
about it," I retorted. "In a match last Septem- 
ber I went on to bowl " 

"Why.?" 

"I knew the captain," I explained. "Well, 
as I say, he asked me to go on to bowl, and I took 
four wickets for thirteen runs. There!" 



SUMMER DAYS 83 

**Good man,'* said Dick. 

"Was it against a girls' school?" said Bobby. 
(You know, Bobby is simply asking for it.) 

"It was not. Nor were children of twelve 
allowed in without their perambulators." 

"Well, anyhow," said Bobby, "I bet Phyllis 
can bowl better than you." 

"Is this true?" I said to Phyllis. I asked her, 
because in a general way my bowling is held to be 
superior to that of girls of fifteen. Of course, 
she might be something special. 

"I can bowl Bobby out," she said modestly. 

I looked at Bobby in surprise and then shook 
my head sadly. 

"You jolly well shut up," he said, turning indig- 
nantly to his sister. "Just because you did it 
once when the sun was in my eyes " 

"Bobby, Bobby," I said, "this is painful hear- 
ing. Let us be thankful that we don't have to 
play against girls' schools. Let us " 

But Bobby was gone. Goaded to anger, he had 
put his hands in his pockets and made the general 
observation "Rice-pudding" — an observation in- 
offensive enough to a stranger, but evidently of 
such deep, private significance to Phyllis that it 
was necessary for him to head a pursuit into the 
shrubbery without further delay. 

"The children are gone," I said to Dick. "Now 
we can discuss the prospects for the season in 
peace." I took up "The Sportsman" again. "I 
see that Kent is going to " 



84 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"The prospects are all right," said Dick, "if 
only I can get into form soon enough. Last year 
I didn't get going till the end of June. By the 
way, what sort of stuff do you bowl?" 

"Ordinary sort of stuff," I said, "with one or 
two bounces in it. Do you see that Surrey " 

"Fast or slow.?" 

"Slow— that is, you know, when I do bowl at 
all. I'm not quite sure this season whether J 
hadn't better " 

"Slow," said Dick thoughtfully; "that's really 
what I want. I want lots of that." 

"You must get Phyllis to bowl to you," I said 
with detachment. "You know, I shouldn't be 
surprised if Lancashire " 

"My dear man, girls can't bowl. She fields 
jolly well, though." 

"What about your father?'* 

"His bowling days are rather over. He was 
in the eleven, you know, thirty years ago. So 
there's really nobody but " 

" One's bowling days soon get over," I hastened 
to agree. 

But I know now exactly what the prospects of 
the season — or, at any rate, of the first week of 
it — are. 

MR. MALLORY 

The prospects here are on the whole encour- 
aging. To dwell upon the bright side first, there 
will be half-an-hour's casual bowling, and an hour 



SUMMER DAYS 85 

and a half's miscellaneous coaching, every day. 
On the other hand, some of his best plants will be 
disturbed, while there is more than a chance that 
he may lose the services of a library window. 

MRS. MALLORY 

The prospects here are much as last year, ex- 
cept that her youngest born, Joan, is now five, 
and consequently rather more likely to wander 
in the way of a cricket ball or fall down in front 
of the roller than she was twelve months ago. 
Otherwise Mrs. Mallory faces the approaching 
season with calm, if not with complete apprecia- 
tion. 

DICK 

Of Dick's prospects there is no need to speak 
at length. He will have two hours' batting every 
day against, from a batsman's point of view, ideal 
bowling, and in addition the whole-hearted ad- 
miration of all of us. In short, the outlook here 
is distinctly hopeful. 

PHYLLIS 

The prospects of this player are, from her own 
point of view, bright, as she will be allowed to 
field for two hours a day to the beloved Dick, She 
is also fully qualified now to help with the heavy 
roller. A new experiment is to be tried this sea- 



86 THE SUNNY SIDE 

son, and she will be allowed to bowl for an odd 
five-minutes at the end of Dick's innings to me. 

BOBBY 

enters upon the coming season with confidence, 
as he thinks there is a chance of my bowling to 
him too; but he is mistaken. As before, he will 
be in charge of the heavy roller, and he will also 
be required to slacken the ropes of the net at the 
end of the day. His prospects, however, are cer- 
tainly improved this season, as he will be qualified 
to bowl for the whole two hours, but only on the 
distinct understanding (with Phyllis) that he does 
his own fielding for himself. 
Of the prospects of 

JOAN 

I have already spoken above. There remain only 
the prospects of 

MYSELF 

which are frankly rotten. They consist chiefly 
of two hours' bowling to the batting of Dick (who 
hits them back very hard), and ten minutes' bat- 
ting to the bowling of Phyllis (slow, mild) and 
Bobby (fast wides); for Dick, having been or- 
dered by the captain not to strain himself by try- 
ing to bowl, is not going to try. It is extremely 
doubtful whether Bobby will approve of my 



SUMMER DAYS 87 

action, while if he or Phyllis should, by an un- 
lucky accident, get me out, I should never hear 
the last of it. In this case, however, there must 
be added to Bobby's prospects the possibility of 
getting his head definitely smacked. 

Fortunately — it is my only consolation — the 
season will be a short one. It ends on Tuesday. 



88 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE FIRST GAME 

THERE comes a Day (I can hear It coming), 
One of those glorious deep blue days, 
When larks are singing and bees are hum- 
ming. 
And Earth gives voice in a thousand 
ways — 
Then I, my friends, I too shall sing. 
And hum a foolish little thing, 
And whistle like (but not too like) a blackbird 
in the Spring. 

There looms a Day (I can feel it looming; 

Yes, it will be in a month or less), 
When all the flowers in the world are 
blooming 
And Nature flutters her fairest dress — 
Then I, my friends, I too shall wear 
A blazer that will make them stare, 
And brush — this is official: I shall also brush my 
hair. 

It is the day that I watch for yearly. 

Never before has it come so late; 
But now I've only a month — no, merely 
A couple of fortnights left to wait; 
And then (to make the matter plain) 
I hold — at last! — a bat again: 



SUMMER DAYS 89 

Dear Hobbs! the weeks this summer — think! the 
weeks 
I've lived in vain! 

I see already the first ball twisting 

Over the green as I take my stand, 
I hear already long-on insisting 

It wasn't a chance that came to hand — 
Or no; I see it miss the bat 
And strike me on the knee, whereat 
Some fool, some silly fool at point, says blandly, 
"How was that?" 

Then, scouting later, I hold a hot-un 

At deep square-leg from the local Fry, 
And at short mid-on to the village Scotton 
I snap a skimmer some six foot high — 
Or else, perhaps, I get the ball. 
Upon the thumb, or not at all, 
Or right into the hands, and then, lorblessme, let 
it fall. 

But what care I? It's the game that calls 
me — 
Simply to be on the field of play; 
How can it matter what fate befalls me, 
With ten good fellows and one good day? 
. . . But still, 
I rather hope spectators will. 
Observing any lack or skill. 
Remark, "This is his first appearance." Yes, I 
ho'pe they will. 



90 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE COMPETITION SPIRIT 

A BOUT six weeks ago a Canadian gentleman 
/-\ named Smith arrived in the Old Country 
(England). He knew a man who knew a 
man who knew a man . . . and so on for a bit 
. . . who knew a man who knew a man who knew 
me. Letters passed; negotiations ensued; and 
about a week after he had first set foot in the 
Mother City (London) Smith and I met at my 
Club for lunch. 

I may confess now that I was nervous. I think 
I expected a man in a brown shirt and leggings, 
who would ask me to put it "right there," and tell 
me I was "some Englishman." However, he 
turned out to be exactly like anybody else in Lon- 
don. Whether he found me exactly like anybody 
else in Canada I don't know. Anyway, we had 
a very pleasant lunch, and arranged to play golf 
together on the next day. 

Whatever else is true of Canada there can be 
no doubt that it turns out delightful golfers. 
Smith proved to be just the best golfer I had ever 
met, being, when at the top of his form, almost 
exactly as good as I was. Hole after hole we 
halved in a mechanical eight. If by means of a 
raking drive and four perfect brassies at the sixth 
he managed to get one up for a moment, then at 
the short seventh a screaming iron and three 



SUMMER DAYS 91 

consummate approaches would make me square 
again. Occasionally he would, by superhuman 
play, do a hole in bogey; but only to crack at the 
next, and leave me, at the edge of the green, to 
play "one off eleven." It was, in fact, a ding- 
dong struggle all the way; and for his one-hole 
victory in the morning I had my revenge with a 
one-hole victory in the afternoon. 

By the end of a month we must have played a 
dozen rounds of this nature. I always had a feel- 
ing that I was really a better golfer than he, and 
this made me friendly towards his game. I would 
concede him short putts which I should have had 
no difficulty in missing myself; if he lost his ball 
I would beg him to drop another and go on with 
the hole; if he got into a bad place in a bunker I 
would assure him it was ground under repair. He 
was just as friendly in refusing to take these ad- 
vantages, just as pleasant in offering similar indul- 
gences to me. I thought at first it was part of 
his sporting way, but it turned out that (absurdly 
enough) he also was convinced that he was really 
the better golfer of the two, and could afford these 
amenities. 

One day he announced that he was going back 
to Canada. 

"We must have a last game," he said, "and 
this one must be decisive." 

"For the championship of the Empire," I 
agreed. "Let's buy a little cup and play for it. 
I've never won anything at golf yet, and I should 



92 THE SUNNY SIDE 

love to see a little cup on the dinner-table every 
night." 

"You can't come to dinner in Canada every 
night,'' he pointed out. "It would be so expen- 
sive for you." 

Well, the cup was bought, engraved "The Em- 
pire Challenge Cup," and played for last Monday. 

"This," said Smith, "is a serious game, and we 
must play all out. No giving away anything, no 
waiving tlie rules. The Empire is at stake. The 
effeteness of the Mother Country is about to be 
put to the proof. Proceed." 

It wasn't the most pleasant of our games. The 
spirit of the cup hung over it and depressed us. 
At the third hole I had an eighteen-inch putt for a 
half. "That's all right," said Smith forgetfully; 
and then added, "Perhaps you'd better put it in, 
though." Of course I missed. On the fifth green 
he was about to brush away a leaf. "That's il- 
legal," I said sharply, "you must pick it up; you 
mayn't brush it away," and after a fierce argu- 
ment on the point he putted hastily — and badly. 
At the eighteenth tee we were all square and 
hardly on speaking terms. The fate of the Mother 
Country depended upon the result of this hole. 

I drove a long one, the longest of the day, 
slightly hooked. 

"Good shot," said Smith with an effort. He 
pressed and foozled badly. I tried not to look 
pleased. 

We found his ball in a thick clump of heather. 



SUMMER DAYS 93 

With a grim look on his face, he took out his 
niblick. . . . 

I stayed by him and helped him comit up to 
eight. 

"Where's your ball?" he growled. 

"A long way on," I said reproachfully. "I wish 
you'd hurry up. The poor thing will be getting 
cold." 

He got to work again. We had another count 
together up to fifteen. Sometimes there would be 
a gleam of white at the top of the heather for a 
moment and then it would fade away. 

"How many.f*" I asked some minutes later. 

"About thirty. But I don't care, I'm going to 
get the little beast into the hole if it takes me all 
night," He went on hacking. 

I had lost interest in the performance, for the 
cup was mine, but I did admire his Colonial grit. 

"Got it," he cried suddenly, and the ball sailed 
out on to the pretty. Another shot put him level 
with me. 

"Thirty-two?" Tasked. 

"About," he said coldly. 

I began to look for my ball. It had got tired 
of waiting and had hidden itself. Smith joined 
gloomily in the search. 

"This is absurd," I said, after three or four 
minutes. 

"By jove!" said Smith, suddenly brightening 
up. "If your ball's lost I win after all." 

"Nonsense; you've given the hole up," I pro- 



94 THE SUNNY SIDE 

tested. "You don't know how many you've 
played. According to the rules, if I ask you how 
many, and you give wrong information " 

"It's thirty -five," he said promptly. 

*'I don't believe you counted." 

"Call it forty -five then. There's nothing to 
prevent my calling it more than it really is. If it 
was really only forty, then I'm counting five occa- 
sions when the ball rolled over as I was addressing 
it. That's very generous of me. Actually I'm 
doubtful if the ball did roll over five times, but I 
say it did in order to be on the safe side." He 
looked at his watch. "And if you don't find 
your ball in thirty seconds, you lose the hole." 

It was ingenious, but the Mother Country can 
be ingenious too. 

"How many have you played exactly.'^" I 
asked. "Be careful." 

"Forty-five," he said. "Exactly." 

"Right." I took my niblick and swung at the 
heather, "Bother," I said. "Missed it. Two." 

"Hallo! Have you found it.f^" 

"I have. It's somewhere in this field. There's 
no rule which insists that you shall hit the ball, or 
even that you shall hit near the ball, or even that 
you shall see the ball when you hit at it. Lots of 
old gentlemen shut their eyes and miss the sphere. 
I've missed. In five minutes I shall miss again." 

"But what's the point?" 

"The point, dear friend," I smiled, "is that 
after each stroke one is allowed five minutes in 



SUMMER DAYS 95 

which to find the ball. I have forty-three strokes 
in hand; that gives me three hours and thirty- 
five minutes in which to look for it. At regular 
intervals of five minutes I shall swing my club 
and probably miss. It's four-thirty now; at eight 
o'clock, unless I find my ball before, I shall be 
playing the like. And if you are a sportsman," 
I added, "you will bring me out some tea in half 
an hour." 



At six-thirty I was still looking — and swinging. 
Smith then came to terms and agreed to share 
the cup with me for the first year. He goes back 
to Canada to-morrow, and will spread the good 
news there that the Old Country can still hold 
its own in resource, determination and staying 
power. But next year we are going to play 
friendly golf again. 



96 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE FIRST TEE 

(mullion) 

IT is the place, it is the place, my soul! 
(Blow, bugle, blow; sing, triangle; toot, 
fife!) 
Down to the sea the close-cropped pastures 

roll, 
Couches behind yon sandy hill the goal 
Whereat, it may be, after ceaseless strife 
The "Colonel" shall find peace, and Henry say, 
"Your hole" . . . 

Caddie, give me my driver, caddie. 

The sun shines hot, but there's half a 
breeze. 
Enough to rustle the tree-tops, laddie. 
Only supposing there were some trees; 
The year's at the full and the morn's at eleven, 
It's a wonderful day just straight from Heaven, 
And this is a hole I can do in seven — 

Caddie, my driver, please. 

Three times a day from now till Monday week 

(Ten peerless days in all) I take my stand 
Vested in some degage mode of breek 
(The chess-board touch, with squares that almost 
speak) , 
And lightly sketch my Slice into the Sand, 
As based on bigger men, but much of it unique. . . . 



SUMMER DAYS 07 

Caddie, give me my driver, caddie. 

Note my style on the first few tees; 
Duncan fashioned my wrist-work, laddie, 
Taylor taught me to twist my knees; 
IVe a beautiful swing that I learnt from Vardon 
(I practise it sometimes down the garden — 
"My fault! Sorry! I beg your pardon!") — 

Caddie, my driver, please. 

Only ten little days, in which to do 

So much! e.g., the twelfth: ah, it w^as there 
The Secretary met his Waterloo, 
But perished gamely, playing twenty-two; 
His clubs {ten little days!) lie bleaching where 
Sea-poppies blow {ten days!) and wheeling sea- 
birds mew. . . , 

Caddie, give me my driver, caddie. 

Let us away with thoughts like these; 
A week and a half is a lifetime, laddie, 
The day that's here is the day to seize; 
Carpe diem — yes, that's the motto, 
"Work be jiggered!" and likewise "What ho!'* 
I'm not going back till I've jolly well 
GOT to! 

Caddie, my driver, please. 



98 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE ENCHANTED CASTLE 

THERE are warm days in London when even 
a window-box fails to charm, and one longs 
for the more open spaces of the country. 
Besides, one wants to see how the other flowers 
are getting on. It is on these days that we travel 
to our Castle of Stopes; as the crow flies, fifteen 
miles away. Indeed, that is the way we get to it, 
for it is a castle in the air. And when we are come 
to it, Celia is always in a pink sunbonnet gather- 
ing roses lovingly, and I, not very far off, am 
speaking strongly to somebody or other about 
something I want done. By-and-by I shall go 
into the library and work . . . with an occasional 
glance through the open window at Celia. 

To think that a month ago we were quite happy 
with a few pink geraniums ! 

Sunday, a month ago, was hot. "Let's take 
train somewhere," said Celia, "and have lunch 
under a hedge." 

"I know a lovely place for hedges," I said. 

"I know a lovely tin of potted grouse," said 
Celia, and she went off to cut some sandwiches. 
By twelve o'clock we were getting out of the train. 

The first thing we came to was a golf course, 
and Celia had to drag me past it. Then we came 
to a wood, and I had to drag her through it. 



SUMMER DAYS 99 

Another mile along a lane, and then we both 
stopped together. 

"Oh!" we said. 

It was a cottage, the cottage of a dream. And 
by a cottage I mean, not four plain rooms and a 
kitchen, but one surprising room opening into 
another; rooms all on different levels and of dif- 
ferent shapes, with delightful places to bump 
your head on; open fireplaces; a large square hall, 
oak-beamed, where your guests can hang about 
after breakfast, while deciding whether to play 
golf or sit in the garden. Yet all so cunningly 
disposed that from outside it looks only a cottage 
or, at most, two cottages persuaded into one. 

And, of course, we only saw it from outside. 
The little drive, determined to get there as soon 
as possible, pushed its way straight through an 
old barn, and arrived at the door simultaneously 
with the flagged lavender walk for the humble 
who came on foot. The rhododendrons were 
ablaze beneath the south windows; a little or- 
chard was running w^ld on the west; there was a 
hint at the back of a clean-cut lawn. Also, you 
remember, there was a golf course, less than two 
miles away. 

"Oh," said Celia with a deep sigh, "but we must 
live here." 

An Irish terrier ran out to inspect us. I bent 
down and patted it. "With a dog," I added. 

"Isn't it all lovely.'^ I wonder who it belongs to, 
and if " 



100 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"If he'd like to give it to us." 

** Perhaps he would if he saw us and admired us 
very much," said Celia hopefully. 

"I don't think Mr. Barlow is that sort of man," 
I said. "An excellent fellow, but not one to take 
these sudden fancies." 

"Mr. Barlow.^ How do you know his name.'*" 

"I have these surprising intuitions," I said 
modestly. " The way the chimneys stand up " 

"I know," cried Celia. "The dog's collar." 

"Right, AVatson. And the name of the house is 
Stopes." 

She repeated it to herself with a frown. 

"What a disappointing name," she said. "Just 
Stopes." 

"Stopes," I said. "Stopes, Stopes. If you 
keep on saying it, a certain old-world charm seems 
to gather round it. Stopes." 

"Stopes," said Celia. "It is rather jolly." 

We said it ten more times each, and it seemed 
the onlv possible name for it. Stopes — of course. 

"Weil!" I asked. 

"We must write to j\Ir. Barlow," said Celia 
decisively. "'Dear Mr. Barlow, er — Dear INIr. 

Barlow — we ' Yes, it will be rather difncult. 

What do we want to say exactly.'*" 

"'Dear INIr. Barlow^ — Maj^ we have your 
house?'" 

"Yes," smiled Celia, "but I'm afraid we can 
hardly ask for it. But we might rent it when — 
when he doesn't want it anv more." 



SUMMER DAYS 101 

"*Dear Mr. Barlow,'" I amended, "'have you 
any idea when you're going to die?' No, that 
wouldn't do either. And there's another thing — 
we don't know his initials, or even if he's a 'Mr.' 
Perhaps he's a knight or a^ — a duke. Think how 

offended Duke Barlow would be if we put ' 

Barlow, Esq.' on the envelope." 

"We could telegraph. 'Barlow. After you 
with Stopes.' " 

"Perhaps there's a young Barlow, a Barlowette 
or two with expectations. It may have been in 
the family for years." 

"Then we Oh, let's have lunch." She sat 

dowTi and began to undo the sandwiches. "Dear 
o' Stopes," she said with her mouth full. 

We lunched outside Stopes. Surely if Earl 
Barlow had seen us he would have asked us in. 
But no doubt his dining-room looked the other 
way; towards the east and north, as I pointed out 
to Celia, thus being pleasantly cool at lunch- 
time. 

"Ha, Barlow," I said dramatically, "a time will 
come when ice shall be lunching in there, and you — 
bah! And I tossed a potted-grouse sandwich to 
his dog. 

However, that didn't get us any nearer. 

"Will you promise," said Celia, "that we shall 
have lunch in there one day?" 

"I promise," I said readily. That gave me 
about sixty years to do something in. 

"I'm like — who was it who saw something of 



102 THE SUNNY SIDE 

another man's and wouldn't be happy till he 
got it?" 

"The baby in the soap advertisement." 

"No, no, some king in history." 

"I believe you are thinking of Aliab, but you 
aren't a bit like him, really. Besides, we're not 
coveting Stopes. All we want to know is, does 
Barlow ever let it in the summer?" 

"That's it," said Celia eagerly. 

"And, if so," I went on, "will he lend us the 
money to pay the rent with?" 

"Er— yes," said Celia. "That's it." 

So for a month we have lived in our Castle of 
Stopes. I see Celia there in her pink sun-bonnet, 
gathering the flowers lovingly, bringing an armful 
of them into the hall, disturbing me sometimes in 
the library with "Aren't they beauties? No, I only 
just looked in — good luck to you." x\nd she sees 
me ordering a man about importantly, or waving 
my hand to her as I ride through the old barn on 
my road to the golf course. 

But this morning she had an idea. 

"Suppose," she said timidly, "you ivrote about 
Stopes, and Mr. Barlow happened to see it, and 
knew how much we wanted it, and " 

"Well!" 

"Then," said Celia firmly, "if he were a gentle- 
man he would give it to us." 

Very well. Now we shall see if Mr. Barlow 
is a gentleman. 



SUMMER DAYS 103 



THE SANDS OF PLEASURE 

IADIES first, so we will start with Jenny, 
i Jenny is only nine, but she has been to the 
seaside before and knows all about it. She 
wears the fashionable costume de plage, which con- 
sists of a white linen hat, a jersey and an over- 
crowded pair of bathing-drawers, into which not 
only Jenny, but the rest of her wardrobe, has had 
to fit itself. Two slim brown legs emerge to bear 
the burden, and one feels that if she fell over she 
would have to stay there until somebody picked 
her up. 

She is holding Richard Henry by the hand. 
Richard Henry is four, and this is the first time 
he has seen the sea. Jenny is showing it to him. 
Privately he thinks that it has been over-rated. 
There was a good deal of talk about it in his 
suburb (particularly from Jenny, who had been 
there before) and naturally one expected some- 
thing rather — well, rather more like what they had 
been saying it was like. However, perhaps it 
would be as well to keep in with Jenny and not to 
let her see that he is disappointed, so every time 
she says, "Isn't the sea lovely?" he echoes, 
"Lovely," and now and then he adds (just to 
humour her), "Is 'at the sea.?" and then she has 
the chance to say again, "Yes, that's the sea, 
darlmg. Isn't it lovely?" It is obvious that she 



104 THE SUNNY SIDE 

is proud of it. Apparently she put it there. Any- 
way, it seems to be hers now. 

Jenny has brought Father and Mother as well as 
Richard Henry. There they are, over there. 
When she came before she had to leave them be- 
hind, much to their disappointment. Father was 
saying, "Form fours, left," before going off to 
France again, and Mother was buying wool to 
make him some more socks. It was a great relief 
to them to know that they were being taken this 
time, and that they would have Jenny to tell them 
all about it. 

Father is lying in a deck-chair, smoking his 
pipe. There has been an interesting discussion 
this afternoon as to whether he is a coward or not. 
Father thought he wasn't, but Mother wasn't 
quite so sure. Jenny said that of course he 
couldn't really be, because the King gave him a 
medal for not being one, but Mother explained 
that it was only a medal he had over, and Father 
happened to be passing by the window. 

"I don't see what this has to do with it," said 
Father. "I simply prefer bathing in the morn- 
mg. 

"Oo, you said this morning you preferred bath- 
ing in the afternoon," says Jenny like a flash. 

"I know; but since then I've had time to think 
it over, and I see that I was hasty. The morning 
is the best time." 

"I'm afraid he is a coward," said Mother sadly, 
wondering why she had married him. 



SUMMER DAYS 105 

"The whole point is, why did Jenny bring me 
here? " 

"To enjoy yourself," said Jenny promptly. 

"Well, I am," said Father, closing his eyes. 

But we do not feel so sure that Mother is enjoy- 
ing herself. She has just read in the paper about 
a mine that floated ashore and exploded. Nobody 
was near at the time, but supposing one of the 
children had been playing with it. 

"Which oncf^" said Father lazily. 

"Jenny." 

"Then we should have lost Jenny." 

This being so, Jenny promises solemnly not to 
play with any mine that comes ashore, nor to let 
Richard Henry play with it, nor to allow it to 
play with Richard Henry, nor 

"I suppose I may just point it out to him and 
say, 'Look, that's a mine'.'^" says Jenny wistfully. 
If she can't do this, it doesn't seem to be much 
use coming to the seaside at all. 

"I don't think there would be any harm in that," 
says Father. "But don't engage it in conversa- 
tion." 

"Thank you very much," says Jenny, and she 
and Richard Henry go off together. 

Mother watches them anxiously. Father closes 
his eyes. 

"Now," says Jenny eagerly, "I'm going to show 
you a darling little crab. Won't that be lovely .f^" 

Richard Henry, having been deceived, as he 
feels, about the sea, is not too hopeful about that 



106 THE SUNNY SIDE 

crab. However, he asks politely, "WTiat's a 
crab?" 

"You'll see directly, darling," says Jenny; and 
he has to be content with that. 

"Crab," he murmurs to himself. 

Suddenly an idea occurs to him. He lets go of 
Jenny's hand and trots up to an old gentleman 
with white whiskers. 

"Going to see a crab," he announces. 

"Going to see a crab, are you, my little man.?" 
says the old gentleman kindly. 

"Going to see a crab," says Richard Henry, 
determined to keep up his end of the conversation. 

"Well, I never! So you're going to see a crab! " 
says the old gentleman, doing his best with it. 

Richard Henry nods two or three times. "Go- 
ing to see a crab," he says firmly. 

Luckily Jenny comes up and rescues him, other- 
wise they would still be at it. "Come along, 
darling, and see the crab," she says, picking up his 
hand; and Richard Henry looks triumphantly at 
the old gentleman. There you are. Perhaps 
he will believe a fellow another time. 

Jenny has evidently made an arrangement with 
a particular crab for this afternoon. It is to be 
hoped that the appointment will be kept, for she 
has hurried Richard Henry past all sorts of wonder- 
ful things which he wanted to stop with for a little. 
But the thought of this lovely crab, which Jenny 
thinks so much of, forbids protest. Quite right 



SUMMER DAYS 107 

not to keep it waiting. What will it be like? Will 
it be bigger than the sea? 

We have reached the rendezvous. We see now 
that we need not have been in such a hurry. 

"There!" says Jenny excitedly. "Isn't he a 
darling little crab? He's asleep." (That's why 
we need not have hurried.) 

Richard Henry says nothing. He can't think 
of the words for what he is feeling. What he 
wants to say is that Jenny has let him down again. 
They passed a lot of these funny little things on 
their way here, but Jenny wouldn't stop because 
she was going to show him a Crab, a great, big, 
enormous darling little Crab — which might have 
been anything — and now it's only just this. No 
wonder the old gentleman didn't believe him. 

Swindled — that's the word he wants. How- 
ever, he can't think of it for the moment, so he 
tries something else. 

"Darling little crab," he says. 

They they leave the dead crab there and hurry 
back, 

"What shall I show you now?" says Jenny. 



108 THE SUNNY SIDE 



GOLDEN MEMORIES 

WHEN Memory with its scorn of ages. 
Its predilection for the past, 
Turns back about a bilHon pages 
And lands us by the Cam at last; 
Is it the thought of "Granta" (once our daughter). 

The Freshers' Match, the Second in our Mays 

That makes our mouth, our very soul to water? 

Ah no! Ah no! It is the Salmon Mayonnaise ! 

The work we did was rarely reckoned 

Worthy a tutor's kindly word — 
(For when I said we got a Second 

I really meant we got a Third) — 
The games we played were often tinged with bitter. 

Amidst the damns no faintest hint of praise 
Greeted us when we missed the authentic 
"sitter"— 

But thou wert always kind, O Salmon May- 
onnaise ! 

Even our nights with "Granta," even 

The style that, week by blessed week, 
Mixed Calverley and J. K, Stephen 

With much that was (I hold) unique. 
Even our parodies of the Rubaiyat 

Were disappointing — yes, in certain ways: 
What genius loves (I mean) the people shy at — 

Yet no one ever shied at Salmon Mayonnaise! 



SUMMER DAYS 109 

Alas! no restaurant in London 

Can make us feel that thrill again; 
Though what they do or what leave undone 

I often ask, and ask in vain. 
Is it the sauce which puts the brand of Cam on 

Each maddening dish? The egg? The yellow 
glaze? 

The cucumber? The special breed of salmon? — 

I only know we loved, we loved that Mayon- 
naise! 

"Did Beauty," some may ask severely, 

"Visit him in no other guise? 
It cannot be that salmon merely 

Should bring the mist before his eyes! 
What of the river there where Byron's Pool lay, 
The warm blue morning shimmering in the 
haze?" 
Not this (I say) . . . Yet something else . . . 
Creme Brulee! 
Ye gods! to think of that and Salmon May- 
onnaise ! 



110 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

THE noise of the retreating sea came pleas- 
antly to us from a distance. Celia was 
lying on her — I never know how to put 
this nicely — well, she was lying face downwards 
on a rock and gazing into a little pool which the 
tide had forgotten about and left behind. I sat 
beside her and annoyed a limpet. Three minutes 
ago I had taken it suddenly by surprise and with 
an Herculean effort moved it an eighteenth of a 
millimetre westwards, Mj^ silence since then was 
lulling it into a false security, and in another two 
minutes I hoped to get a move on it again. 

"Do you know," said Celia with a puzzled look 
on her face, "sometimes I think I'm quite an 
ordinary person after all." 

"You aren't a little bit," I said lazily; "you're 
just like nobody else in the world." 

"Well, of course, you had to say that.'* 

"No, I hadn't. Lots of husbands would merely 
have yawned." I felt one coming and stopped 
it just in time. Waiting for limpets to go to sleep 
is drowsy work. "But why are you so morbid 
about yourself suddenly.?" 

"I don't know," she said. "Only every now 
and then I find myself thinking the most obvious 
thoughts." 



SUMMER DAYS 111 

*'We all do," I answered, as I stroked my lim- 
pet gently. The noise of our conversation had 
roused it, but a gentle stroking motion (I am told 
by those to whom it has confided) will frequently 
cause its muscles to relax. "The great thing is 
not to speak them. Still, you'd better tell me 
now. What is it.?" 

"Well," she said, her cheeks perhaps a little 
pinker than usual, "I was just thinking that life 
was very wonderful. But it's a silly thing to say." 

"It's holiday time," I reminded her. "The 
need for sprinkling our remarks with thoughtful 
words like 'economic' and 'sporadic' is over for a 
bit. Let us be silly." I scratched in the rock the 
goal to which I was urging my limpet and took 
out my watch. "Three thirty -five. I shall get 
him there by four." 

Celia was gazing at two baby fishes who played 
in and out a bunch of sea- weed. Above the sea- 
weed an anemone sat fatly. 

"I suppose they're all just as much alive as we 
are," she said thoughtfully. "They marry" — 
I looked at my limpet with a new interest — "and 
bring up families and go about their business, and 
it all means just as much to them as it does to us." 

"My limpet's business affairs mean nothing 
to me," I said firmly. "I am only wrapped up 
in him as a sprinter." 

"Aren't you going to try to move him again.?^" 

"He's not quite ready yet. He still has his 
suspicions." 



112 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Cella dropped Into silence. Her next question 
showed that she had left the pool for a moment. 

"Are there any people in Mars?" she asked. 

"People down here say that there aren't. A 
man told me the other day that he knew this for 
a fact. On the other hand, people in Mars know 
for a fact that there isn't anybody on the Earth. 
Probably they are both wrong." 

"I should like to know a lot about things," 
sighed Celia. "Do you know anything about 
limpets .f^" 

"Only that they stick like billy-o." 

"I suppose more about them is known than 
that?" 

"I suppose so. By people who have made a 
specialty of them. For one who has preferred 
to amass general knowledge rather than to special- 
ize, it is considered enough to know that they 
stick like billy-o." 

"You haven't specialized in anything, have 

you?" 

"Only in wives." 

Celia smiled and went on. "How do you make 
a specialty of limpets?" 

"Well, I suppose you — er — study them. You 
sit down and — and watch them. Probably after 
dark they get up and do something. And of 
course, in any case, you can always dissect one 
and see what he's had for breakfast. One way 
and another you get to know things about them." 

"They must have a lot of time for thinking," 



SUMMER DAYS 113 

said Celia, regarding my limpet with her head on 
one side. "Tell me, how do they know that there 
are no men in Mars?" 

I sat up with a sigh. 

"Celia, you do dodge about so. I have barely 
brought together and classified my array of facts 
about things in this world, when you've dashed 
up to another one. What is the connexion be- 
tween Mars and limpets? If there are any limpets 
in Mars they are freshwater ones. In the 
canals." I 

"Oh, I just wondered," she said. "I mean" — 
she wrinkled her forehead in the effort to find 
words for her thoughts — "I'm wondering what 
everything means, and why we're all here, and 
what limpets are for, and, supposing there are 
people in Mars, if we're the real people whom the 
world was made for, or if they are." She stopped 
and added, "One evening after dinner, when we 
get home, you must tell me all about everything.''^ 

Celia has a beautiful idea that I can explain 
everything to her. I suppose I must have ex- 
plained a stymie or a no-ball very cleverly once. 

"Well," I said, "I can tell you what limpets 
are for now. They're like sheep and cows and 
horses and pheasants and — and any other animal. 
They're just for us. At least so the wise people 
say. 

"But we don't eat limpets." 

"No, but they can amuse us. This one" — and 
with a sudden leap I was behind him as he dozed. 



114 THE SUNNY SIDE 

and I had dashed him forward another eighteenth 
of a millimetre — "this one has amused me." 

"Perhaps," said Ceha thoughtfully, and I don't 
think it was quite a nice thing for a young woman 
to say, "perhaps we're only meant to amuse the 
people in Mars." 

"Then," I said lazily, "let's hope that they are 
amused." 

• • • • • 

Ten days later the Great War began. Cella 
said no more on the subject, but she used to look 
at me curiously sometimes, and I fear that the 
problem of life left her more puzzled than ever. 
At the risk of betraying myself to her as "quite an 
ordinary person after all" I confess that there are 
times when it leaves me puzzled too. 



IV. WAR-TIME 



WAR-TIME 

O.B.E. 

1KN0W a Captain of Industry, 
Who made big bombs for the R.F.C., 
And collared a lot of £ s. d. — 
And he— thank God!— has the O.B.E. 

I know a Lady of Pedigree, 
Who asked some soldiers out to tea. 
And said "Dear me!" and "Yes, I see'*— 
And sh^thank God!— has the O.B.E. 

I know a fellow of twenty-three. 
Who got a job with a fat M.P. — 
(Not caring much for the Infantry.) 
And he— thank God!— has the O.B.E. 

I had a friend; a friend, and he 
Just held the line for you and me. 
And kept the Germans from the sea. 
And died — without the O.B.E. 

Thank God! 
He died without the O.B.E. 



117 



118 THE SUNNY SIDE 



ARMAGEDDON 



THE conversation had turned, as it always 
does in the smoking-rooms of golf clubs, 
to the state of poor old England, and Por- 
kins had summed the matter up. He had marched 
round in ninety-seven that morning, followed by a 
small child with an umbrella and an arsenal of 
weapons, and he felt in form with himself. 

"What England wants," he said, leaning back 
and puffing at his cigar, — "what England wants 
is a war. (Another whisky and soda, waiter.) 
We're getting flabby. All this pampering of the 
poor is playing the very deuce with the country. 
A bit of a scrap with a foreign power would do us 
all the good in the world." He disposed of his 
whisky at a draught. "We're flabby," he re- 
peated. "The lower classes seem to have no 
sense of discipline nowadays. We want a war to 
brace us up." 

• • • • • 

It is well understood in Olympus that Porkins 
must not be disappointed. What will happen to 
him in the next world I do not know, but it will 
be something extremely humorous; in this world, 
however, he is to have all that he wants. Ac- 
cordingly the gods got to work. 

In the little village of Ospovat, which is in the 



WAR-TIME 110 

southeastern corner of Ruritania, there lived a 
maiden called Maria Strultz, who was engaged 
to marry Captain Tomsk. 

"I fancy," said one of the gods, "that it might 
be rather funny if Maria jilted the Captain. I 
have an idea that it would please Porkins." 

"Whatever has Maria " began a very 

young god, but he was immediately suppressed. 

"Really, "said the other, "I should have thought 
it was sufficiently obvious. You know what 
these mortals are." He looked round to them all. 
"Is it agreed then.''" 

It was agreed. 

So Maria Strultz jilted the Captain. 

Now this, as you may imagine, annoyed Cap- 
tain Tomsk. He commanded a frontier fort 
on the boundary between Ruritania and Essen- 
land, and his chief amusement in a dull life was to 
play cards with the Essenland captain, who 
commanded the fort on the other side of the river. 
When Maria's letter came, he felt that the only 
thing to do was to drown himself; on second 
thoughts he decided to drown his sorrows first. 
He did this so successfully that at the end of the 
evening he was convinced that it was not Maria 
who had jilted him, but the Essenland captain 
who had jilted Maria; whereupon he rowed 
across the river and poured his revolver into the 
Essenland flag which was flying over the fort. 
Maria thus revenged, he went home to bed, and 
woke next morning with a bad headache. 



120 THE SUNNY SIDE 

C^Now we're off,** said the gods in Olympus.) 

In Diedeldorf, the capital of Essenland, the 
leader-writers proceeded to remove their coats. 

"The blood of every true Essenlander," said 
the leader-writer of the "Diedeldorf Patriot,'* 
after sending out for another pot of beer, "will 
boil when it hears of this fresh insult to our be- 
loved flag, an insult which can only be wiped out 
with blood." Then seeing that he had two 
"bloods" in one sentence, he crossed the second 
one out, substituted "the sword," and lit a fresh 
cigarette. "For years Essenland has writhed 
under the provocations of Ruritania, but has 
preserved a dignified silence; this last insult is 
more than flesh and blood can stand." Another 
"blood" had got in, but it was a new sentence 
and he thought it might be allowed to remain. 
"We shall not be accused of exaggeration if we 
say that Essenland would lose, and rightly lose, 
her prestige in the eyes of Europe if she let this 
affront pass unnoticed. In a day she would sink 
from a first-rate to a fifth-rate power." But he 
didn't say how. 

The Chancellor of Essenland, in a speech gravely 
applauded by both sides of the House, announced 
the steps he had taken. An ultimatum had been 
sent to Ruritania demanding an apology, an indem- 
nity of a hundred thousand marks, and the public 
degradation of Captain Tomsk, whose epaulettes 
were to be torn off by the Commander-in-Chief 
of the Essenland Army in the presence of a full 



WAR-TIME 121 

corps of cinematograph artists. Failing this, war 
would be declared. 

Ruritania offered the apologj% the indemnity, 
and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, 
but urged that this last ceremony would be better 
performed by the Commander-in-Chief of the 
Ruritanian Army; otherwise Ruritania might 
as well cease to be a sovereign state, for she would 
lose her prestige in the eyes of Europe, and sink 
to the level of a fifth-rate power. 

There was only one possible reply to this, and 
Essenland made it. She invaded Ruritania. 

{" Arent they wonderful?'* said the gods in 
Olympus to each other. 

"But haven't you made a mistake?" asked the 
very young god. *' Parkins lives in England, not 
Essenland." 

*'Wait a moment" said the others.) 

In the capital of Borovia the leader-writer of 
the "Borovian Patriot" got to work. "How 
does Borovia stand.^" he asked. "If Essenland 
occupies Ruritania, can any thinking man in 
Borovia feel safe with the enemy at his gates.'''* 
(The Borovian peasant, earning five marks a week, 
would have felt no less safe than usual, but then 
he could hardly be described as a thinking man.) 
"It is vital to the prestige of Borovia that the in- 
tegrity of Ruritania should be preserved. Other- 
wise we may resign ourselves at once to the 
prospect of becoming a fifth-rate power in the 



122 THE SUNNY SIDE 

eyes of Europe." And in a speech, gravely ap- 
plauded bj' all parties, the Borovian Chancellor 
said the same thing. So the Imperial Army was 
mobilized and, amidst a wonderful display of 
patriotic enthusiasm by those who were remain- 
ing behind, the Borovian troops marched to the 
front. . . . 

{"And there you are,'' said the gods in Olympus. 

''But even now " began the very young god 

doubtfully. 

"Silly, isn't Felicia the ally of Essenland; isn't 
Marksland the ally of Borovia; isii't England the 
ally of the ally of the ally of the Country which holds 
the balance of power between Markskuui and 
Felicia?" 

"But if any of them thought the whole thing 
stupid or unjust or " 

"Their prestige," said the gods gravely, trying 
not to laugh. 

**0h, I see," said the very young god.) 

And when a year later the hundred-thousandth 
English mother woke up to read that her boy had 
been shot, I am afraid she shed foolish tears and 
thought that the world had come to an end. 

Poor short-sighted creature! She didn't realize 
that Porkins, who had marched round in ninety-six 
the day before, was now thoroughly braced up. 

("What babies they all are," said the very young 
god.) 



WAR-TIME 123 



GOLD BRAID 



SAME old crossing, same old boat, 
Same old dust round Rouen way. 
Same old narsty one-franc note, 
Same old "Mercy, sivvoo play"; 
Same old scramble up the line, 

Same old 'orse-box, same old stror. 
Same old weather, wet or fine, 
Same old blooming War. 

Ho Lor, it isrCt a dream. 

It's just as it used to he, every hit; 
Same old whistle and same old hang^ 

And me out again to he Ht. 

'Twas up by Loos I got me first; 

I just dropped gently, crawled a yard 
And rested sickish, with a thirst — 

The 'eat, I thought, and smoking 'ard. 
Then someone 'ands me out a drink. 

What poets call "the cooling draft,'* 
And seeing 'im I done a think: 

^'Blighty,"" I thinks — and laughed. 

I'm not a soldier nacheral. 

No more than most of us to-day; 

I runs a business with a pal 

(Meaning the INIissis) Fulham way; 



124 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Greengrocery — the cabbages 

And fruit and things I take meself. 

And she has daffs and crocuses 
A-smiHng on a sheK. 

"Blighty," I thinks. The doctor knows; 

'E talks of punctured damn-the-things. 
It's me for Blighty. Down I goes; 

I ain't a singer, but I sings. 
"Oh, 'oo goes 'ome.''" I sort of 'ums; 

"Oh, 'oo's for dear old England's shores?' 
And by-and-by Southampton comes — 

"Blighty!" I says, and roars. 

I s'pose I thort I done my bit; 

I s'pose I thort the War would stop; 
I saw meself a-getting fit 

With INIissis at the little shop; 
The same like as it used to be, 

The same old markets, same old crowd, 
The same old marrers, same old me. 

But 'er as proud as proud. . . . 

. . • • ■ 

The regiment is where it was, 

I'm in the same old nintli platoon; 
New faces most, and keen becos 

They thinks the thing is ending soon; 
I ain't complaining, mind, but still, 

WTien later on some newish bloke 
Stops one and laughs, "A blighty. Bill," 

I'll wonder, "Where's the joke?" 



WAR-TIME 125 

Same old trenches, same old view. 

Same old rats as blooming tame, 
Same old dug-outs, nothing new. 

Same old smell, the very same. 
Same old bodies out in front. 

Same old strafe from 2 till 4, 
Same old scratching, same old 'unt. 

Same old bloody War. 

Ho Lor, it isn't a dream, 

Ifs just as it used to be, every bit; 

Same old whistle and same old bang. 
And me to stay 'ere till I'm 'it. 



126 THE SUNNY SIDE 



TOBY 



IT will save trouble if I say at once that I know 
nothing about horses. This will be quite ap- 
parent to you, of course, before I have fin- 
ished, but I don't want you to suppose that it is 
not also quite apparent to me. I have no illu- 
sions on the subject; neither, I imagine, has Toby. 

To me there are only two kinds of horse. 
Chestnuts, roans, bay rums — I know nothing of 
all these; I can only describe a horse simply as a 
nice horse or a nasty horse. Toby is a nice horse. 

Toby, of course, knows much more about men 
than I do about horses, and no doubt he describes 
me professionally to his colleagues as a "flea- 
bitten fellow standing about eighteen hoofs"; 
but when he is not being technical I like to think 
that he sums me up to himself as a nice man. At 
any rate I am not allowed to wear spurs, and that 
must weigh with a horse a good deal. 

I have no real right to Toby. The Signalling 
Officer's official mount is a bicjxle, but a bicycle 
in this weather — ! And there is Toby, and some- 
body must ride him, and, as I point out to the 
other subalterns, it would only cause jealousy if 
one of them rode him, and " 

"Why would it create more jealousy than if 
you do?" asked one of them. 

"Well," I said, "you're the officer commanding 
platoon number " 



WAR-TIME 127 

"Fifteen." 

"Fifteen. Now, why should the officer com- 
manding the fifteenth platoon ride a horse when 
the officer commanding the nineteenth " 

He reminded me that there were only sixteen 
platoons in a battalion. It's such a long time 
since I had anything to do with platoons that I 
forget. 

"All right, we'll say the sixteenth. Why 

shouldn't he have a horse .'^ Of all the unjust 

Well, you see what recriminations it would lead 
to. Now I don't say I'm more valuable than a 
platoon-commander or more effective on a horse, 
but, at any rate, there aren't sixteen of me. 
There's onXj one Signalling Officer, and if there 
is a spare horse over " 

"What about the Bombing Officer.'*" said 
O.C. Platoon 15 carelessly. 

I had quite forgotten the Bombing Officer. Of 
course he is a specialist too. 

"Yes, quite so, but if you would only think a 
little," I said, thinking hard all the time, "you 
would — well, put it this way. The range of a 
IVIills bomb is about fifty yards; the range of a 
field telephone is several miles. Which of us 
is more likely to require a horse.'*" 

''And the Sniping officer.'* " he went on dreamily. 

This annoyed me. 

"You don't shoot snipe from horseback," I 
said sharply. "You're mixing up shooting and 
hunting, my lad. And in any case there are rea- 



128 THE SUNNY SIDE 

sons, special reasons, why I ride Toby — reasons 
of which you know nothing." 
Here are the reasons : — 

1. I think I have more claim to a horse called 
Toby than has a contributor to "Our Feathered 
Friends" or whatever paper the Sniping OflScer 
writes for. 

2. When I joined the Army, Celia was incon- 
solable. I begged her to keep a stiff upper lip, 
to which she replied that she could do it better 
if I promised not to keep a bristly one. I pointed 
out that the country wanted bristles; and though, 
between ourselves, we might regard it as a prom- 
ising face spoilt for a tradition, still discipline was 
discipline. And so the bristles came, and re- 
mained until the happy day when the War Office, 
at the risk of losing the war, made them optional. 
Immediately they were uprooted. 

Now the Colonel has only one fault (I have been 
definitely promised my second star in 1927, so 
he won't think I am flattering him with a purpose) : 
he likes moustaches. His own is admirable, and 
I have no wish for him to remove it, but I think 
he should be equally broad-minded about mine. 

*'You aren't really more beautiful without it," 
he said. "A moustache suits you." 

"My wife doesn't think so," I said firmly. I 
had the War Office on my side, so I could afford 
to be firm. 

The Colonel looked at me, and then he looked 
out of the window, and made the following re- 
markable statement. 



WAR-TIME 129 

"Toby," he said gently to himself, "doesn't 
like clean-shaven officers." 

This hadn't occurred to me; I let it sink in. 

"Of course," I said at last, "one must consider 
one's horse. I quite see that." 

"With a bicycle," he said, "it's different." 

And so there you have the second reason. If 
the Bombing Officer rode Toby, I should shave 
again to-morrow, and then where would the 
Battalion be? Ruined. 

So Toby and I go off together. Up till now he 
has been good to me. He has bitten one Com- 
pany Commander, removed another, and led the 
Colonel a three-mile chase across country after 
him, so if any misunderstanding occurs between 
us there will be good precedent for it. So far 
my only real trouble has been once when billeting. 

Billeting is delightful fun. You start three 
hours in advance of the battalion, which means 
that if the battalion leaves at eight in the morning, 
you are up in the fresh of the day, when the birds 
are singing. You arrive at the village and get 
from the Mayor or the Town Major a list of pos- 
sible hostesses. Entering the first house (labelled 
"Officers 5") you say, "Vous avez un lit pour un 
Offider id, rCest-ce pas? Vive la France !" She 
answers, "Pas un lit," and you go to the next 
house. " Vous avez place pour cent hommes — oui?^* 
"Non," says she — and so on. By-and-by the 
battalion arrives, and everybody surrounds you. 
"Where are my men going?" "Where is my billet?'* 
"Where's 'C Company's mess?" "Have you 



130 THE SUNNY SIDE 

found anything for the Pioneers?" And so one 
knows what it is to be popular. 

Well, the other daj'^ the Major thought he'd 
come with me, just to give me an idea how it 
ought to be done. I say nothing of the result; 
but for reasons connected with Toby I hope he 
won't come again. For in the middle of a narrow 
street crowded with lorries, he jumped off his 
horse, flung (I think that's the expression) — 
flung me the reins and said, "Just wait here while 
I see the Mayor a moment." 

The Major's horse I can describe quite shortly — 
a nasty big black horse. 

Toby I have already described as a nice horse, 
but he had been knee-deep in mud, inspecting 
huts, for nearly half an hour, and was sick of 
billeting. 

I need not describe two-hundred-lorries-on-a- 
dark-evening to you. 

And so, seeing that you know the constituents, I 
must let you imagine how they all mixed. . . . 

This is a beastly war. But it has its times; 
and when our own particular bit of the battle is 
over, and what is left of the battalion is marching 
back to rest, I doubt if, even in England (which 
seems verj^ far off), you will find two people more 
contented with the morning than Toby and I, as 
we jog along together. 



WAR-TIME 131 



COMMON 

SEATED In your comfortable club, my very 
dear sir, or in your delightful drawing-room, 
madam, you may smile pityingly at the 
idea of a mascot saving anybody's life. "What 
will be, will be," you say to yourself (or in Italian 
to your friends), "and to suppose that a charm 
round the neck of a soldier will divert a German 
shell is ridiculous." But out there, through the 
crumps, things look otherwise. 

Common had sat on the mantelpiece at home. 
An ugly little ginger dog, with a bit of red tape 
for his tongue and two black beads for his eyes, 
he viewed his limited world with an air of inno- 
cent impertinence very attractive to visitors. 
Common he looked and Common he was called, 
with a Christian name of Howard for registration. 
For six months he sat there, and no doubt he 
thought that he had seen all that there was to see 
of the world when the summons came which was 
to give him so different an outlook on life. 

For that summons meant the breaking up of his 
home. Master was going wandering from trench 
to trench, Mistress from one person's house to 
another person's house. She no doubt would take 
Common with her; or perhaps she couldn't be 
bothered with an ugly little ginger dog, and he 



132 THE SUNNY SIDE 

would be stored In some repository, boarded out 
in some Olympic kennel. "Or do you possibly 
tliink Master might " 

He looked very wistful that last morning, so 
wistful that INIistress couldn't bear it, and she 
slipped him in hastily between the revolver and 
the boracic powder, "Just to look after you," 
she said. So Common came with me to France. 

His first view of the country was at Rouen, 
when he sat at the entrance to my tent and hooshed 
the early morning flies away. His next at a village 
behind the lines, where he met stout fellows of 
"D" Company and took the centre of the table 
at mess in the apple orchard; and moreover was 
introduced to a French maiden of two, with whom, 
at the instigation of the seconds in the business — ■ 
her motlier and myself — a prolonged but monot- 
onous conversation in the French tongue ensued. 
Common, under suitable pressure, barking idio- 
matically, and the maiden, carefully prompted, 
replying with the native for "Bow-wow." A 
pretty greenwood scene beneath the apple-trees, 
and in any decent civilization the great adventure 
would have ended there. But Common knew 
tliat it was not only for this that he had been 
brought out, and that there was more arduous 
work to come. 

Once more he retired to the valise, for we were 
making now for a vill — for a heap of bricks near 
the river; you may guess the river. It was about 
this time that I made a Uttle rhyme for him: 



WAR-TIME 133 

There was a young puppy called Howard, 
Who at fighting was rather a coward; 

He never quite ran 

When the battle began. 
But he started at once to bow-wow hard. 

A good poet is supposed to be superior to the 
exigencies of rhyme, but I am afraid that in any 
case Common's reputation had to be sacrificed to 
them. To be lyrical over anybody called Howard 
Common without hinting that he — well, try for 
yourself. Anyhow it was a lie, as so much good 
poetry is. 

There came a time when valises were left behind 
and life for a fortnight had to be sustained on a 
pack. One seems to want very many things, 
but there was no hesitation about Common's 
right to a place. So he came to see his first Ger- 
man dug-out, and to get a proper understanding 
of this dead bleached land and the great work 
which awaited him there. It was to blow away 
shells and bullets when they came too near the 
master in whose pocket he sat. 

In this he was successful; but I think that the 
feat in which he takes most pride was performed 
one very early summer morning. A telephone line 
had to be laid, and, for reasons obvious to Com- 
mon, rather rapidly. It was laid safely — a mere 
nothing to him by this time. But when it was 
joined up to the telephone in the front line, then 
he realized that he was called upon to be not only 
a personal mascot, but a mascot to the battalion, 



134 THE SUNNY SIDE 

and he sat himself upon the telephone and called 
down a blessing on that cable, so that it remained 
whole for two days and a night when by all the 
rules it should lia\e been in a tJiousand pieces. 
"And even if I didn't rcalh/ do it all myself," he 
said, "anyhow I did make some of the men in 
the trench smile a little that morning, and there 
wasn't so rcri/ much smiling going on just tlien, 
you know." 

After that morning he lived in my pocket, 
sometimes snilhng at an empty pipe, sometimes 
trying to read letters from Mistress which joined 
him every day. We had gone North to a more 
gentlemanly part of the line, and his duties took 
but little of his time, so that anything novel, like 
a pair of pliers or an order from the Director of 
Army Signals, was always welcome. To begin 
with he took up rather more than his fair share 
of the pocket, but he rapidly thinned down. 
Ala^! in the rigours of the campaign he also lost 
his voice; and his little black collar, his only kit, 
disappeared. 

Then, just when we seemed settled for the 
winter, we were ordered South again. Common 
knew what that meant, a busy time for him. 
We moved do\\ni slowly, and he sampled billet 
after billet, but we arrived at last and sat down to 
wait for the day. 

And then he began to get nervous. Always he 
was present when the operations were discussed; 



WAR-TIME 135 

he had seen all the maps; he knew exactly what 
was expected of us. And he didn't like it. 

"It's more than a fellow can do," he said; "at 
least to be certain of. I can blow away the shells 
in front and the shells from the right, but if Mas- 
ter's map is correct we're going to get enfiladed 
from the left as well, and one can't be everywhere. 
This wants thinking about." 

So he dived head downwards into the deepest 
recesses of my pocket and abandoned himself 
to thought. A little later he came up with a 
smile. . . . 

Next morning I stayed in bed and the doctor 
came. Common looked over his shoulder as he 
read the thermometer. 

"A hundred and four," .said Common. "Golly! 
I hope I haven't over-done it." 

He came with me to the clearing station. 

"I only just blowed a germ at him," he said 
wistfully — "one I found in his pocket. I only 
just blowed it at him." 

We went down to the base hospital together; 
we went back to England. And in the hospital 
in England Common suddenly saw his mistress 
again. 

"I've brought him back. Missis," he said. 
"Here he is. Have I done well.^" 



He sits now in a httle basket lined with flannel, 



136 THE SUNNY SIDE 

a hero returned from the War. Round his neck 
he wears the regimental colours, and on his chest 
will be sewn whatever medal is given to those who 
have served faithfully on the Western Front. 
Seated in your comfortable club, my very dear 
sir, or in your delightful drawing-room, madam, 
you smile pityingly. . . . 
Or perhaps you don't. 



WAR-TIME 137 

GEORGE'S V.C. 

(the last of the war stories) 



THE Colonel of the Nth Blankshires was 
seated in his oflBce. It was not an imposing 
room to look at. Furnished simply but 
tastefully with a table, officers, for use of, one, 
and a chair, ditto, one, it gave little evidence of 
the distressing scenes which had been enacted 
in it, and still less evidence of the terrible scene 
which was to come. Within these walls the 
Colonel was accustomed to deal out stern justice 
to offenders, and many a hardened criminal had 
been carried out fainting upon hearing the ter- 
rible verdict, "One day's C.B." 

But the Colonel was not holding the scales of 
justice now, for it was late afternoon. With an 
expression of the utmost anxiety upon his face 
he read and re-read the official-looking document 
which he held in his hand. Even the photograph 
of the Sergeant-Major (signed, "Yours ever, 
Henry"), which stood upon his desk, brought 
him no comfort. 

The door opened and Major Murgatroyd, 
second in command of the famous Blankshires, 
came in. 

"Come in," said Colonel Blowhard. 



138 THE SUNNY SIDE 

The Major saluted impressively, and the Colonel 
rose and returned his salute with the politeness 
typical of the British Army. 

"You wished to see me, Colonel?" 

"I did. Major." They saluted each other 
again. "A secret document of enormous im- 
portance," went on the Colonel, "has just reached 
me from the War Office. It concerns the Regi- 
ment, the dear old Regiment." Both men saluted, 
and the Colonel went on hoarsely, "Were the news 
in this document to become public property before 
its time, nothing could avert the defeat of England 
in the present world-wide cataclysm." 

"Is it as important as that. Colonel.'^" said the 
Major, even more hoarsely if anything. 

"It is. Major." 

The Major's voice sank to a whisper. 

"What would not Hindenburg give to see it," 
he muttered. 

"Ay," said the Colonel. "I say that to myself 
day and night: 'What not what — what would 

what ' Well, I say it to myself day and 

night. For this reason. Major, I have decided 
to entrust the news to no one but yourself. Our 
Officers are good lads and a credit to the dear old 
Regiment" — they saluted as before — "but in a 
mat^^er of this sort one cannot be too discreet." 

"You are right, Colonel." 

The Colonel looked round the room appre- 
hensively and brought his chair a little closer to 
the Major. 



WAR-TI:ME 139 



"The secret contained in this document 

Are we alone?" 

"Except for each other, Colonel." 

"The secret," went on the Colonel, "is this: 
that, on and after the 23rd of the month, men in 
category X3 are to be included in category X2." 

"My God," gasped the Major, "if Hindenburg 
knew!" 

"He must not know, Major," said the Colonel 
simply. "I can trust you not to disclose this 
until the time is ripe.''" 

"You can trust me. Colonel." 

They grasped hands and saluted. 

At this moment the door opened and an orderly 
came in. 

"You're wanted by the Sergeant-Ma j or, sir," 
he told the Colonel. 

"All, excuse me a moment," said the latter to 
his second in command, knowing how much it 
annoys a sergeant-major to be kept waiting. He 
saluted and hurried out. 

"Just a moment, orderly," said the Major. 

The orderly came back. "Yes, sir," he said. 

"Did you give that message to Miss Blowhard.''" 

"Yes, sir. She says she cannot play golf with 
you to-morrow because she is playing with Second- 
Lieutenant Lord Smith." He saluted and with- 
drew. 

Left alone the Major gave vent to his rage. 
"Lord Smith!" he stormed. "Curse him! What 
can she see in that puppy .'^ Thrice have I used my 



140 THE SUNNY SIDE 

influence to send him away on a musketry course, 
and thrice has he returned. Could I but turn 
him out of the Regiment for good, I might win the 
love of the fair Miss Blowhard, the Colonel's 
daughter." In a sudden passion he picked up 
the "Manual of IVlilitary Law" and flung it to the 
ground. 

All at once an idea struck him and a crafty 
look came into his eyes. 

"By jove," he cried, "the secret document! 
The very thing." 

To put the document into an envelope was the 
work of a moment. Taking up a pen he printed 
on the outside in large capitals these words: 



FOR HINDENBURG, 
GERIVIANY 

With a diabolical smile he sealed the envelope 
up, rang the bell, and ordered Second-Lieutenant 
Lord Smith to be brought before him. 

"You wanted me, sir?" said Lord Smith on 
his arrival. 

Of all the distinguished oflBcers in the Nth 
Battalion, Lord Smith was perhaps the most 
brilliant. Although he had held his commission 
for three years he had only been arrested twice by 
the Provost-Marshal — the first time for wearing 
a soft cap when, as an oflBcer and gentleman, he 



WAR-TIME 141 

should have worn a hard one, and the second time, 
three months later, for wearing a hard cap when, 
as an officer and gentleman, he should have worn 
a soft one. Nobody can deny that these were 
serious blots on his career, but it was felt in the 
trenches that his skill with the rifle partially 
atoned for them. 

"Ah, Smith, my boy," said the Major genially, 
"I just wanted to know the address of your tailor. 
Wonderfully well-cut tunic this of yours." He 
went over to him and, under pretence of examin- 
ing the cut of his tunic, dropped the envelope 
cautiously into one of the pockets. 

Somewhat surprised at the compliment paid to 
his tailor, but entirely unsuspicious, Lord Smith 
gave him the required address. 

"Thanks," said the Major. "By the way, 
I've got to go out now; would you mind waiting 
here till the Colonel comes back.^^ He has left an 
extremely important document on his table and 
I do not like to leave the room unoccupied." 

"Certainly, sir," said Lord Smith. 

Left alone, our hero gave himself up to thought. 
For some reason he distrusted the Major; he felt 
that they were rivals for the hand of Rosamund 
Blowhard. On ten Sundays in succession he had 
been forced to attend Church Parade, what time 
the Major and Rosamund were disporting them- 
selves on the golf links. It was only on Saturday 
afternoons that he had a chance of seeing her 
alone, and yet he felt somehow that she loved him. 



142 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"All, Smitli, my boy," said the Colonel as he 
bustled in. "Always glad to see you. My 
favourite subaltern," he went on, with his hand 
on the young man's shoulder; "the best officer 
who ever formed a foiu' at bridge — I mean, who 
ever formed fours; and a holder of no fewer than 
tliree musketry certificates." 

Lord Smith smiled modestly. 

"There, I must get on with my work," went on 
the Colonel, sitting down at his table and turning 
over his papers. "You find me very — you find 
me — you find — good Heavens!" 

"What is it, sir.?" 

"I don't find it — I've lost it; the secret docu- 
ment!" 

"Was it very important, sir.''" 

"Important!" cried the Colonel. "If Hinden- 

burg but we must get to work. Summon the 

guard, blow the fire-alarm, send for the Orderly 
Sergeant." 

In less than a minute the room was full of armed 
men, including the Major. 

"Men of the Ntli Blankshires," said the Colonel, 
addressing them, "a document of enormous im- 
portance has been stolen from this room. Unless 
that document is recovered the fair name of the 
Regiment will be irretrievably tarnished." 

"Never!" cried a Corporal of the Signalling 
Section, and there was a deep murmur of ap- 
plause. 

"May I suggest, sir," said the Major, "that the 



WAR-TIME 143 

pockets of all should be searched? I myself am 
quite ready to set the example," and as he spoke 
he drew out three receipted hills and a price list of 
tomatoes, and placed them before the Colonel. 

One by one they followed his example. 

Suddenly all eyes were fixed on Second-Lieu- 
tenant Lord Smith, as with horror and amaze- 
ment upon his face he drew from his pocket the 
official-looking envelope. 

"I swear I never put it there, sir," he gasped. 

"Perhaps I ought to tell you, sir," said the 
Major, "that I asked Lord Smith to keep an eye 
upon the document during my absence. No 
doubt he placed it in his pocket for safety." 

Several men applauded this suggestion, for 
Lord Smith was a general favourite. 

The Colonel gave one glance at the envelope, 
and then, with fire flashing from his eyes, held it 
up for all to see. 

"How do you account for this?" he cried in a 
voice of thunder, and with a gasp of horror they 
read the fatal words: 



FOR HINDENBURG, 
GERMANY 

The Colonel and the other officers drew their 
swords, the rank and file fixed bayonets; they 
hacked the buttons off Lord Smith's tunic, they 



144 THE SUNNY SIDE 

dug the stars out of his sleeves, they tore the regi- 
mental badge from his cap; they tore his collar, 
they tore his tie, they took his gold cigarette-case; 
and still he stood there, saying proudly, "I am 
innocent." 

"Go!" said the Colonel, pointing with his 
sword to the door. 

Suddenly there was a commotion outside and a 
breathless figure pushed its way into the room, 

"Father," cried Rosamund Blowhard, "spare 
him. He is innocent." 

"Rosamund," said George, for so we must call 
him now, "I am innocent. Some day the truth 
will be known." Then he took a tender fare- 
well of her and, casting a glance of mingled sus- 
picion and hatred at the Major, he strode from the 
room. 

II 

The patient in the Xth bed at the Yth Base 
Hospital stirred restlessly. 

"Water," he murmured, "water." 

A soft-footed nurse rose and poured some over 
him. "Rosamund," he breathed, and with a smile 
of content dropped peacefully asleep again. 

Who was he, this mysterious patient in Number 
X bed.^ Obviously a gentleman from the colour 
of his pyjamas, his identity disc proclaimed him 
to be Private Smithlord of the Qth Blankshires. 
There was something strange about him. Only 
that morning he had received the V.C. from Sir 



WAR-TIME 145 

Douglas Haig, the R.S.V.P. from General Petain, 
the Order of the Golden Elephant from our Jap- 
anese Allies, the Order of the Split Haddock 
from the President of Nicaragua, and the Order 
of the Neutral Nut from Brazil. Yet he cared 
for none of these things; he only murmured, 
"Rosamund!" Who was Private Smithlord? 

Though so little was known of him, the story 
of his prowess was on every lip. An officer from 
his regiment who had gone out alone to an ob- 
servation post had been surrounded and cut off 
by the enemy. Threatened on all sides by guns 
and bombs of every calibre, he had prepared to 
sell his life dearly. To attempt a rescue would 
have been madness; even the most reckless Town 
Major would have blenched at the idea; and the 
Regiment, in the comparative safety of their 
trench, could only look on helplessly. 

All but Private Smithlord. Hastily borrowing 
the Colonel's horse, he urged the gallant animal 
up the trench and away over the top. And then 
began a race such as had never been seen at Ep- 
som or Melton Mowbray. 

"Gad," said a sporting subaltern, who in peace 
days had frequently entered for a Derby sweep- 
stake at the National Liberal Club, "the beggar 
can ride — what.^^ " 

An answering cheer rang out from all ranks. 

Over wire entanglements and across shell holes 
dashed Private Smithlord, firing rapidly with his 
revolver all the while. Nearer to the ill-fated 



146 THE SUNNY SIDE 

officer he drew, and then suddenly- he was in the 
midst of the enemy. Lashing out right and left, 
he fought his way to the man he had come to 
rescue, pulled him up behind him and, amidst a 
hurricane of bullets, charged back to the British 
hues. Nor did he pause till he arrived at the 
Colonel's dug-out. 

*'I have brought him back, sir," he said, and 
fainted. When he awoke it was to find himself 
in the Xth bed of the Yth Base Hospital. 

And who is it in the next bed.^^ It is the officer 
whom he rescued. Do we recognize him.'^ Alas, 
no. Although unwounded by the enemy, the 
exposure of that terrible day had brought on a 
severe attack of mumps. We cannot recognize 
him. But the nurse assures us that it is our old 
friend. Major Murgatroyd. 

"A visitor to see you," said the nurse, coming in 
and waking Private Smithlord up. 

"Can't you say I'm out.'^" said Smithlord, 
expecting it was another foreign decoration and 
wondering what language he would have to speak 
this time. 

"It's an English Colonel," said the nurse. 

Smithlord saluted and begged the nurse to 
show him up at once. In another minute Colonel 
Blowhard had entered. 

"I want to thank you," said the Colonel, "for 
so gallantly rescuing an old friend of mine — 
Major INIurgatroyd, belonging to the Nth Battal- 
ion BlankshireSj but now attached to the Qth," 



WAR-TIME 147 

Smithlord could hardly repress a start. In the 
excitement of the moment he had not recognized 
the features of the man he had saved. It was his 
old rival. 

"It is curious," went on the Colonel, "that in 
features you resemble another old friend of mine, 
Lord Smith." 

"My name is Smithlord, sir." 

"Ah! Any relation.?" 

"None," said Smithlord, crossing his thumbs 
under the bedclothes. 

"Do you mind ringing the bell.''" he went on, 
feeling that at all costs he must turn the conver- 
sation. "I think it is time for my medicine." 

In answer to the Colonel's ring a nurse appeared. 

"Nurse Brown has just gone out," she said. 
"Can I do anything for you.''" 

"Good Heavens! Rosamund!" cried the 
Colonel. 

"Yes, father, it is I," she replied simply. "I 
have come to France to find the man I love." 

"Murgatroyd.'*" said the Colonel. "But this 

gallant fellow was the man who By the way, 

let me introduce you. Private Smithlord, my 
daughter, Rosamund." 

The two looked at each other face to face. The 
intuition and ready wit of the woman pierced the 
disguise which had baflSed the soldier. 

"Father," she cried, "it's not Smithlord, it's 
Lord Smith. George!" 

"Rosamund!" cried George. We cannot keep 



us THE SUNNY SIDE 

the secret any longer from our readers; it was 
Lord Smith. 

"Tut, tut, sir, wjiat is this?" said the Colonel. 
"I turned you out of the Regiment three weeks 
ago. What the deuce," he said, for, like all mili- 
tary men, he was addicted to strong language — 
"what the deuce does this mean?" 

*'I was innocent, sir." 

** Father, he was innocent." 

*'He was innocent," said a hollow voice from the 
next bed. 

In amazement they all looked at the officer 
lying there. 

"Rosamund," he cried, "am I so greatly 
changed?" 

The Colonel handed him his pocket mirror. 

"Yes," sighed the Major, "I understand. But 
I am Major Murgatroyd." 

"Major Murgatroyd!" they all cried. 

"This gallant fellow here, whom I now know 
to be Lord Smith, saved niy life; I cannot let him 
suffer any longer. It was I who hid the secret 
document in his pocket. I did it for love of you, 
Kosamund." He held out his hand. "Say you 
forgive me, my dear Lord Smith." 

Lord Smith shook his hand warmly. 

But little more remains to tell. A month later 
our hero was back in England. Fortunately the 
Quartermaster had kept his buttons; and in a 
very short time he was back in the dear old uni- 
form, and the wedding of Second-Lieutenant Lord 



WAR-TIME 149 

Smith to Rosamund Blowhard was one of the 
events of the season. 

And what of Major Murgatroyd? He has learnt 
his lesson; and as commandant of a rest camp on 
the French coast he is the soul of geniality to all 
who meet him. 



150 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE BALLAD OF PRIVATE CHADD 

1SING of George Augustus Chadd, 
Who'd always from a baby had 
A deep affection for his Dad — 
In other words, his Father; 
Contrariwise, the father's one 
And only treasure was his son, 
Yes, even when he'd gone and done 
Things which annoyed him rather. 

For instance, if at Christmas (say) 
Or on his parent's natal day 
The thoughtless lad forgot to pay 

The customary greeting. 
His father's visage only took 
That dignified reproachful look 
W hich dying beetles give the cook 

Above the clouds of Keating. 

As years went on such looks were rare; 
The younger Chadd was always there 
To greet his father and to share 

His father's birthday party; 
The pink "For auld acquaintance sake" 
Engraved in sugar on the cake 
Was his. The speech he used to make 

Was reverent but hearty. 



WAR-TIME 151 

The younger Chadd was twentyish 
When War broke out, but did not wish 
To get an A.S.C. commish 

Or be a rag- time sailor; 
Just Private Chadd he was, and went 
To join his Dad's old regiment. 
While Dad (the dear old dug-out) sent 

For red tabs from the tailor. 

To those inured to war's alarms 
I need not dwell upon the charms 
Of raw recruits when sloping arms. 

Nor tell why Chadd was hoping 
That, if his sloping-powers increased, 
They'd give him two days' leave at least 
To join his Father's birthday feast . . . ' 

And so resumed his sloping. 

One morning on the training ground. 
When fixing bayonets, he found 
The fatal day already round. 

And, even as he fixed, he 
Decided then and there to state 
To Sergeant Brown (at any rate) 
His longing to congratulate 

His sire on being sixty. 

"Sergeant," he said, "we're on the eve 
Of Father's birthday; grant me leave" 
(And here his bosom gave a heave) 
"To offer him my blessing; 



152 THE SUNNY SIDE 

And, if a Private's tender thanks — 
Nay, do not blank my blanky blanks! 
I could not help but leave the ranks; 
Birthdays are more than dressing." 

The Sergeant was a kindly soul. 
He loved his men upon the whole. 
He'd also had a father's role 

Pressed on him fairly lately. 
"Brave Chadd," he said, "thou speakest sooth! 
O happy day! O pious youth! 
Great," he extemporized, "is Truth, 

And it shall flourish greatly." 

The Sergeant took him by the hand 
And led him to the Captain, and 
The Captain tried to understand. 

And (more or less) succeeded; 
" Correct me if you don't agree. 
But one of you wants ichat?" said he. 
And George Augustus Chadd said, "Me!" 

Meaning of course that he did. 

The Captain took him by the ear 
And gradually brought him near 
The Colonel, who was far from clear. 

But heard it all politely. 
And asked him twice, "You want a what?" 
The Captain said that he did not. 
And Chadd saluted quite a lot 

And put the matter rightly. 



WAR-TIINIE 153 

The Colonel took him by the hair 
And furtively conveyed him where 
The General inhaled the air. 

Immaculately booted; 
Then said," Unless I greatly err 
This Private wishes to prefer 
A small petition to you, Sir," 

And so again saluted. 

The General inclined his head 
Towards the two of them and said, 
"Speak slowly, please, or shout instead; 

I'm hard of hearing, rather." 
So Chadd, that promising recruit, 
Stood to attention, clicked his boot. 
And bellowed, with his best salute, 

"A happy birthday, Father!'' 



154 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE VISITORS' BOOK 

AS a man of the world," said Blake, stretch- 

/-% ing himself to his full height of five foot 
three, and speaking with the wisdom of 
nineteen years, "I say that it can't be done. In 
any other company, certainly; at headquarters, 
possibly; but not in D Company. D Company 
has a reputation." 

"All I say," said Rogers, "is that, if you can't 
run any mess in the trenches on four francs a day, 
you're a rotten mess president." 

Blake turned dramatically to his company 
commander. 

"Did you hear that, Billy.?" he asked. 

"Yes," said Billy. "I was just going to say it 
myself." 

"Then, in that case, I have the honour to 
resign the mess presidency." 

"Nothing doing, old boy. You're detailed." 

"You can't be detailed to be a president. Presi- 
dents are elected by popular acclamation. They 
resign — they resign " 

"To avoid being shot." 

"Well, anyhow, they resign. I shall send my 
resignation in to the Army Council to-night. It 
will appear in 'The Gazette' in due course. '2nd 
Lieut. Blake resigns his mess presidency owing to 



WAR-TIME 155 

the enormous price of sardines per thousand and 
the amount of hme juice consumed by casual 
visitors.' I'll tell you what — I'll run the mess on 
four francs, if you'll bar guests." 

"Rot, it's nothing to do with guests. We never 
have any." 

"Never have any!" said Blake indignantly. 
"Then I shall keep a visitors' book just to show 

you." 

So that was how the D Company Visitors' Book 
was inaugurated. I had the honour of opening 
it. I happened to be mending a telephone line 
in this particular trench one thirsty day, and there 
was the dug-out, and — well, there was I. I 
dropped in. 

"Hallo," said Blake, "have a drink." 

I had a lime juice. Then I had another. And 
then, very reluctantly, I got up to go. Army 
Form Book 136 was handed to me. 

"The visitors' book," said Blake. "You can 
just write your name in it, or you can be funny, 
whichever you like." 

"What do they usually do.^*" I asked. 

"Well, you're the first, so you'll set the tone. 
For God's sake don't be too funny." 

It was an alarming responsibility. However, 
as it happened, I had something which I wanted 
to say. 

"Thursday, 12.45 p.m.," I wrote. "Pleasantly 
entertained as usual by D Company. Refused 
a pressing invitation to stay to lunch, although 



156 THE SUNNY SIDE 

it was a hot day and I had a long walk back to my 
own mess." 

I handed the book back to Blake. He read it; 
and with one foot on the bottom step of the dug- 
out I waited anxiously. 

"Oh, I say, do stay to lunch," he said. 

I gave a start of surprise. 

"Oh, thanks very much," I said, and I took 
my foot off the step. "It would be rather — I 
think, perhaps — well, thanks very much." 

Once begun, the book filled up rapidly. Sub- 
alterns from other companies used to call round 
for the purpose of being funny; I suppose that 
unconsciously I had been too humorous — anyway, 
the tone had been set. The bombing officer, I 
remember, vowed that Mrs. Blake's hospitality 
was so charming that he would bring his wife and 
family next time. A gunner officer broke into 
verse — a painful business. One way and another 
it was not long before the last page was reached. 

"We must get the General for the last page," 
said Blake. 

"Don't be an ass," said Rogers. 

"Whatever's the matter .^^ Don't you think he'd 
doit?" 

"You wouldn't have the cheek to ask him." 

"Good lord, you don't stop being a human 
being, because you command a brigade. Why 
on earth shouldn't I ask him.^^" 

I happened to turn up just then. The telephone 
line from headquarters to D Company always 



WAR-TIME 157 

seemed to want attention, whatever part of the 
Hne we were in. 

"Hallo," said Blake, "have a drink." 

"Well, I am rather thirsty," I said, and I took 
out a pencil. "Pass the visitors' book and let's 
get it over." 

"No, you don't," said Blake, snatching it away 
from me, "that's for the General." 

"This way, sir," said a voice above, and down 
came Billy, followed by the Brigadier. We 
jumped up. 

"You'll have a drink, sir?" said Billy. 

"Oh, thanks very much." 

"What will you have, sir.''" asked Blake, look- 
ing round wildly. " Lime juice or — or lime juice.'' " 

"I'll have lime juice, thank you," said the 
General after consideration. 

Blake produced the book nervously. 

"I wonder if you'd mind," he began. 

The General looked inquiring, and started 
feeling for his glasses. He was just feeling in his 
fifth pocket when Billy came to the rescue. 

"It's only some nonsense of Blake's, sir," he 
said. "He keeps a visitors' book." 

"Ah, well," said the General, getting up, 
"another day, perhaps." 

When we were alone again Blake turned on 
Billy. 

"You are a silly ass," he said. "If you hadn't 
interfered, he'd have done it. Well, I shall fill 
it in myself now." 



158 THE SUNNY SIDE 

He took a pencil and wrote: 

"Monda3\ — Hospitably received by 'D' Com- 
pany and much enjoyed the mess president's 
amusing conversation. The company commander 
and a subaltern named Rogers struck me as rather 
lacking in intelligence. R. Blake, D.S.O,, Brig.- 
Gen." 

I had been out of it for a long time, and when 
quite accidentally I met an officer of the battal- 
ion in London I was nearly a year behind the news. 

"And Blake," I said, after he'd told me some 
of it, "that nice child in 'D' Company; what 
happened to him?" 

"Didn't you hear.^* He had rather a funny 
experience. He went into that last show as senior 
subaltern of 'D.' Billy was knocked out pretty 
early and Blake took on. After that we had a 
lot of casualties, and finally we were cut off from 
headquarters altogether and had to carry on on 
our own. Billy was the senior company com- 
mander and took charge of the battalion. I don*t 
quite know how it happened after that. We all 
got rather mixed up, I suppose. Anyway, at one 
time Blake was actually commanding the brigade. 
He was splendid; simply all over the place. He 
got the D.S.O. He's rather bucked with himself. 
Young Blake as a Brigadier — funny, isn't it.^*" 

"Not so very," I said. 



WAR-TIME 159 



FROM A FULL HEART 

IN days of peace my fellow-men 
Rightly regarded me as more like 
A Bishop than a Major-Gen., 
And nothing since has made me warlike; 
But when this age-long struggle ends 
And I have seen the Allies dish up 
The goose of Hindenburg — oh, friends! 
I shall out-bish the mildest Bishop. 

When the War is over and the Kaiser's out of print, 

I'm going to buy some tortoises and watch the beg- 
gars sprint; 

When the War is over and the sword at last we 
sheathe, 

Fm going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breathe. 

I never really longed for gore, 

Arid any taste for red corpuscles 
That lingered with me left before 

The German troops had entered Brussels. 
In early days the Colonel's "Shun!" 

Froze me; and, as the War grew older, 
The noise of someone else's gun 

Left me considerably colder. 

When the War is over and the battle has been won, 
Fm going to buy a barnacle and take it for a run; 



160 THE SUNNY SIDE 

When the War is over and the German Fleet we sink, 
I'm going to keep a silk-worm's egg and listen to it 
think. 

The Captains and the Kings depart — 

It may be so, but not Heutenants; 
Dawn after weary dawn I start 

The never-ending round of penance; 
One rock amid the welter stands 

On which my gaze is fixed intently — 
An after-life in c^uiet lands 

Lived very lazily and gently. 

When the War is over and we've done the Belgians 

proud, 
I'm going to keep a chrysalis and read to it aloud; 
When the War is over and we've finished up the show, 
I'm going to plant a lemon-pip and listen to it grow. 

Oh, I'm tired of the noise and the turmoil of 

battle, 
And I'm even upset by the lowing of cattle. 
And the clang of the bluebells is death to my 

liver, 
And the roar of the dandelion gives me a shiver. 
And a glacier, in movement, is much too exciting, 
And I'm nervous, when standing on one, of 

alighting — 
Give me Peace; that is all, that is all that I 

seek . . . 
Say, starting on Saturday week. 



WAR-TIME 161 



ONE STAR 

OCCASIONALLY I receive letters from 
friends, whom I have not seen lately, 
addressed to Lieutenant M and apolo- 
gizing prettily inside in case I am by now a colonel; 
in drawing-rooms I am sometimes called "Cap- 
tain-er"; and up at the Fort the other day a 
sentry of the Royal Defence Corps, wearing the 
Cr^gy medal, mistook me for a Major, and pre- 
sented crossbows to me. This is all wrong. As 
Mr. Garvin well points out, it is important that 
we should not have a false perspective of the War. 
Let me, then, make it perfectly plain — I am a 
Second Lieutenant. 

When I first became a Second Lieutenant I 
was rather proud. I was a Second Lieutenant 
"on probation." On my right sleeve I wore a 
single star. So: 

* 

(on probation, of course). 
On my left sleeve I wore another star. So: 

* 

(also on probation). 
They were good stars, none better in the service; 
and as we didn't like the sound of "on probation" 
Celia put a few stitches in them to make them 
more permanent. This proved effective. Six 



162 THE SUNNY SIDE 

months later I had a very pleasant note from the 
King telling me that the days of probation were 
now over, and making it clear that he and I were 
friends. 

I was now a real Second Lieutenant. On my 
right sleeve I had a single star. Thus: 

* 

(not on probation). 

On my left sleeve I also had a single star. In 
this manner: 

This star also was now a fixed one. 

From that time forward my thoughts dwelt 
naturally on promotion. There were exalted 
persons in the regiment called Lieutenants. They 
had two stars on each sleeve. So: 

** 

I decided to become a Lieutenant. 

Promotion in our regiment was difficult. After 
giving the matter every consideration I came to 
the conclusion that the only way to win my second 
star was to save the Colonel's life. I used to 
follow him about affectionately in the hope that 
he would fall into the sea. He was a big strong 
man and a powerful swimmer, but once in the 
water it would not be difficult to cling round his 
neck and give an impression that I was rescuing 
him. However, he refused to fall in. I fancy 
that he wore somebody's Military Soles which 
prevent slipping. 



WAR-TIME 163 

Years rolled on. I used to look at my stars 
sometimes, one on each sleeve; they seemed 
very lonely. At times they came close together; 
but at other times as, for instance, when I was 
semaphoring, they were very far apart. To pre- 
vent these occasional separations Celia took them 
off my sleeves and put them on my shoulders. 
One on each shoulder. So : 

* 

And so: 

* 

There they stayed. 

And more years rolled on. 

One day Celia came to me in great excitement. 

"Have you seen this in the paper about pro- 
motion?" she said eagerly. 

"No; what is it.'*" I asked. "Are they making 
more generals .f^" 

"I don't know about generals; it's Second 
Lieutenants being Lieutenants." 

"You're joking on a very grave subject,'* I said 
seriously. "You can't expect to win the War if 
you go on like that." 

"Well, you read it," she said, handing me the 
paper. 

I took the paper with a trembling hand, and 
read. She was right! If the paper was to be 
believed, all Second Lieutenants were to become 
Lieutenants after eighteen years' service. At 
last my chance had come. 



164 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"My dear, this is wonderful," I said. "In 
another fifteen years we shall be there. You 
might buy two more stars this afternoon and 
practise sewing them on, in order to be ready. 
You mustn't be taken by surprise when the actual 
moment comes." 

"But you're a Lieutenant now,''* she said, "if 
that's true. It says that 'after eighteen 
months 

I snatched up the paper again. Good Heavens! 
it was eighteen months — not years. 

"Then \ am a Lieutenant," I said. 

We had a bottle of champagne for dinner that 
night, and Celia got the paper and read it aloud 
to my tunic. And just for practice she took the 
two stars off my other tunic and sewed them on 

this one — thus: 

** ** 

And we had a very happy evening. 

"I suppose it will be a few days before it's 
officially announced," I said. 

"Bother, I suppose it will," said Celia, and very 

reluctantly she took one star off each shoulder, 

leaving the matter — so: 

* * 

And the years rolled on. . . . 

And I am still a Second Lieutenant. . . . 

I do not complain; indeed I am even rather 
proud of it. If I am not gaining on my original 
one star, at least I am keeping pace with it. I 
might so easily have been a corporal by now. 



WAR-TIME 165 

But I should like to have seen a Httle more 
notice taken of me in the "Gazette." I scan it 
every day, hoping for some such announcement 
as this: 

'^Second Lieutenant M to remain a Second 

Lieutena?it." 

Or this: 

''Second Lieutenant M to be seconded and to 

retain his present rank of Second Lieutenaiil" 

Or even this : 

''Second Lieutenant M relinquishes the rank 

of Acting Second Lieutenant on ceasing to command 
a Battalion, and reverts to the rank of Second Lieu- 
tenant.^'' 

Failing this, I have thought sometimes of making 
an announcement in the Personal Column of 
*' The Times": 

"Second Lieutenant M regrets that his 

duties as a Second Lieutenant prevent him from 
replying personally to the many kind inquiries 
he has received, and begs to take this oppor- 
tunity of announcing that he still retains a star 
on each shoulder. Both doing well." 

But perhaps that is unnecessary now. I 
think that by this time I have made it clear just 
how many stars I possess. 

One on the right shoulder. So: 

* 

And one on the left shoulder. So: 

* 
That is all. 



166 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE JOKE: A TRAGEDY 

CHAPTER I 

THE Joke was born one October day in the 
trench called Mechanics, not so far from 
Loos. We had just come back into the 
line after six days in reserve, and, the afternoon 
being quiet, I was writing my daily letter to Celia. 
I was telling her about our cat, imported into our 
dug-out in the hope that it would keep the rats 
down, when suddenly the Joke came. I was so 
surprised by it that I added in brackets, "This is 
quite my own. I've only just thought of it." 
Later on the Post- Corporal came, and the Joke 
started on its way to England. 

CHAPTER II 

Chapter II finds me some months later at 

home again. 

"Do you remember that joke about the rats 

in one of your letters.^" said Celia one evening. 
"Yes. You never told me if you liked it." 
"I simply loved it. You aren't going to waste 

it, are you.^^ " 

"If you simply loved it, it wasn't wasted." 
"But I want everybody else Couldn't 

you use it in the Revue?" 



WAR-TIME 167 

I was supposed to be writing a Revue at this 
time for a certain impresario. I wasn't getting on 
very fast, because whenever I suggested a scene 
to him, he either said, "Oh, that's been done," 
which killed it, or else he said, "Oh, but that's 
never been done," which killed it even more 
completely. 

"Good idea," I said to Celia. "We'll have a 
Trench Scene." 

I suggested it to the impresario when next I saw 
him. 

"Oh, that's been done," he said. 

"IVIine will be quite different from anybody 
else's," I said firmly. 

He brightened up a httle. 

"All right, try it," he said. 

I seemed to have discovered the secret of suc- 
cessful revue-writing. 

The Trench Scene was written. It was written 
round the Joke, whose bright beams, like a per- 
fect jewel in a perfect setting However, I 

said all that to Celia at the time. She was just 
going to have said it herself, she told me. 

So far, so good. But a month later the Revue 
collapsed. The impresario and I agreed upon 
many things — as, for instance, that the War 
would be a long one, and that Hindenburg was 
no fool — but there were two points upon which 
we could never quite agree: (1) TMiat was funny, 
and (2) which of us was writing the Revue. So, 
with mutual expressions of goodwill, and hopes 



168 THE SUNNY SIDE 

that one day we might write a tragedy together, 
we parted. 

That ended the Revue; it ended the Trench 
Scene; and, for the moment, it ended the Joke. 

CHAPTER III 

Chapter III finds the war over and Ceha still 
at it. 

"You haven't got that Joke in yet." 

She had just read an article of mine called 
"Autumn in a Country Vicarage." 

"It wouldn't go in there very well," I said. 

"It would go in anywhere where there were rats. 
There might easily be rats in a vicarage." 

"Not in this one." 

"You talk about 'poor as a church mouse.'" 

"I am an artist," I said, thumping my heart and 
forehead and other seats of the emotions. "I 
don't happen to see rats there, and if I don't see 
them I can't write about them. Anyhow, they 
wouldn't be secular rats, like the ones I made my 
joke about." 

"I don't mind whether the rats are secular or 
circular," said Celia, "but do get them in soon." 

Well, I tried. I really did try, but for months 
I couldn't get those rats in. It was a near thing 
sometimes, and I would think that I had them, 
but at the last moment they would whisk off and 
back into their holes again. I even wrote an 
article about " Cooking in the Great War," feeling 



WAR-TIME 169 

that that would surely tempt them, but they were 
not to be drawn. . . . 

CHAPTEH TV 

But at last the perfect opportunity came. I 
received a letter from a botanical paper asking 
for an article on the Flora of Trench Life. 

"Horray!" said Celia. "There you are." 

I sat down and wrote the article. Working up 
gradually to the subject of rats, and even more 
gradually intertwining it, so to speak, with the 
subject of cats, I brought off in one perfect climax 
the great Joke. 

"Lovely!" said Celia excitedly. 

"There is one small point which has occurred 
to me. Rats are fauna, not flora; I've just re- 
membered." 

"Oh, does it matter?" 

"For a botanical paper, yes." 

And then Celia had a brilliant inspiration. 

"Send it to another paper," she said. 

I did. Two days later it appeared. Con- 
sidering that I hadn't had a proof, it came out 
extraordinarily well. There was only one mis- 
print. It was at the critical word of the Joke. 

CHAPTER V 

''That's torn it," I said to Celia. 
"I suppose it has," she said sadly. 



170 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"The world will never hear the Joke now. It's 
had it wrong, but still it's had it, and I can't re- 
peat it." 

Celia began to smile. 

"It's sickening," she said; "but it's really 
rather funny, you know." 

And then she had another brilliant inspiration. 

"In fact you might write an article about it." 

And, as you see, I have. 

EPILOGUE 

Having read thus far, Celia says, "But you 
still haven't got the Joke in." 

Oh, well, here goes. 

Extract from letter: "We came back to the line 
to-day to find that the cat had kittened. How- 
ever, as all the rats seem to have rottened we are 
much as we were." 

"Rottened" was misprinted "rattened," which 
seems to me to spoil the Joke. . . . 

Yet I must confess that there are times now 
when I feel that perhaps after all I may have over- 
rated it. . . . 

But it was a pleasant joke in its day. 



WAR-TIME 171 



THE LAST POT 

1ET others hymn the weariness and pain 
i (Or, if they will, the glory and the 
glamour) 
Of holding fast, from Flanders to Lorraine, 
The thin brown line at which the Germans 
hammer; 
My Muse, a more domesticated maid, 
Aspires to sing a song of Marmalade. 

O Marmalade! — I do not mean the sort, 

Sweet marrow-pulp, for babes and maidens 
fitter, 

But that wherein the golden fishes sport 

On oranges seas (with just a dash of bitter), 

Not falsely coy, but eager to parade 

Their Southern birth — in short, Marmalade! 

Much have I sacrificed : my happy home, 
My faith in experts' figures, half my money, 

The fortnight that I meant to spend in Rome, 
My weekly effort to be fairly funny; 

But these are trifles, light as air when weighed 

Against this other — Breakfast Marmalade. 



172 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Fair was the porridge in the days of peace. 
And still more fair the cream and sugar taken; 

Plump were the twin poached eggs, yet not obese, 
Upon their thrones of toast, and crisp the 
bacon — 

I face their loss undaunted, unafraid, 

If only I may keep my Marmalade. 

An evening press without Callisthenes ; 

A tabless Staff; an immobile spaghetti; 
A Shaw with whom the Common Man agrees; 

A Zambra searching vainly for Negretti; 
When spades are trumps, a hand without a spade — 
So is my breakfast lacking Marmalade. 

Northcliffe (Lord)! O Keiller! O Dundee! 

O Crosse and Blackwell, Limited! O Seville! 
O orange groves along the Middle Sea! 

(O Jaffa, for example) O the devil — 
Let Beef and Butter, Rolls and Rabbits fade, 
But give me back my love, my Marmalade, 



WAR-TIME 173 



THE STORY THAT WENT WEST 

"T"TrTHY don't you write a war story?" said 

W Celia one autumn day when that sort 
of story was popular. 

"Because everybody else does," I said. "I 
forget how many bayonets we have on the West- 
ern Front, but there must be at least twice as 
many fountain-pens." 

"It needn't be about the Western Front." 

"Unfortunately that's the only front I know 
anything about." 

"I thought writers used their imagination some- 
times," said Celia to anybody who might happen 
to be listening. 

"Oh, well, if you put it like that," I said, "I 
suppose I must." 

So I settled down to a story about the Salonica 
Front. 

The scene of my story was laid in an old clay 
hut amid the wattles. 

"What are wattles?" asked Celia, when I told 
her the good news. 

"Local colour," I explained. "They grow in 
Bulgaria." 

"Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure that these ones did; I don't know 
about any others." 

Of course more local colour was wanted than a 



174 THE SUNNY SIDE 

mere wattle or two. It was necessary therefore 
for my Bulgarians always to go about in comitadjis. 
Celia thought that these were a kind of native 
trouser laced at the knee. She may be right. 
My own impression is that they are a species of 
platoon. Anyhow the Bulgars always went about 
in them. 

There was a fierce fight which raged round the 
old clay hut in the wattles. The Greeks shouted 
" TvTTTO), TvTTToimi. " Thc Scrbs, for reasons into which 
I need not enter, were inarticulate with rage. 
With the French and British I had, of course, no 
difficulty, and the Bulgars (fortunately) were con- 
tent with hoarse guttural noises. It was a fierce 
fight while it lasted, and I was sorry when it was 
over, because for the first time I began to feel at 
home with my story. I need not say that many a 
Bulgar had licked the wattles before I had 
finished. 

Unfortunately something else happened be- 
fore I had finished. 

"What do you think .f^" cried Celia, bursting 
into my room one evening, just when I was won- 
dering whether my readers would expect to know 
more of the heroine's native costume than that it 
was "simple yet becoming." 

"Wait a moment," I said, 

"It's too good to wait," said Celia excitedly. 
"Bulgaria has surrendered." 

Celia may be a good patriot, but she lacks the 
artistic temperament. 



WAR-TIME 175 

"Oh, has she?" I said bitterly. "Then she's 
jolly well spoilt my story." 

"The one about the wattles?" 

"Yes." 

"Tut-tuttles," said Celia frivolously. 

Well, I wasn't going to waste my wattles. With 
great presence of mind I decided to transfer my 
story to the Palestine Front. 

Under a hard blue sky of intense brilliance the 
old clay hut stood among the wattles. A loadi 
ran by the side of it; not a small Turkish dog, as 
Celia thought, but — well, everybody knows what 
a wadi is. The battle went on much as before, 
except that the Turks were naturally more out- 
spoken than the Bulgars, calling freely upon 
Allah at the beginning of the fight, and recon- 
ciling themselves to the end of it with "Kismet." 
I also turned some of the horses into camels, and 
(for the sake of the Indian troops) several pairs of 
puttees into chupaties. It was a good story while 
it lasted. 

However, nobody seems to care about art nowa- 
days. 

"What do you think?" cried Celia, bursting 
into my room. 

I held up a delayin^y hand. I had suddenly 
thought of the word "adobe." My story seemed 
to need it somewhere. If possible, among the 
wattles. 

"But listen!" She read out the headline: 
"'Turkey Surrenders at Discretion.'" 



176 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Discretion!" I said indignantly. "I have 
never heard of anything so tactless. And it isn't 
as though I could even move on to Mesopotamia." 

" Couldn't there be a little local rising in Persia.''" 
suggested Ceha. 

"I doubt it, I doubt it," I said thoughtfully. 
"You can't do much with just wattles and a little 
sherbet — I mean 5'ou can't expect the public to 
be interested in Persia at such a moment as this. 
No, we shall have to step westward. We must 
see what we can do with the Italian Front." 

But I had very little hope. A curious fore- 
boding of evil came over me as I placed those 
wattles tenderly along the west bank of the Piave. 
The old clay hut still stood proudly amid them; 
the Bersaglieri advanced impetuously with cries 
of ^' En arant!" — no, that's wrong — with cries of — 
well, anyhow they advanced. 

They advanced. ... 

And as I shut my eyes I seemed to see — no, 
not that old clay hut amid the wattles, nor yet 
the adobe edifice on the heights of Asiago, but 
Celia coming into the librarj'^ with another paper 
announcing that yet another country was deaf 
to the call of art. 

If anybody wants a really good story about the 
Peninsular War and will drop me a line, I shall be 
glad to enter into negotiations with him. The 
scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Badajoz, and 
the chief interest centres round an old — yes, you 
have guessed it — an old clay hut in the wattles. 



WAR-TIME 177 



THE TWO VISITS, 

1888, 1919 
("Dispersal Areas, 10a, 10b, lOe — Crystal PaUice.'*) 

IT was, I think, In '88 
That Luck or Providence or Fate 
Assumed the more material state 
Of Aunt (or Great-Aunt) AHce, 
And took (the weather being fine. 
And Bill, the eldest, only nine) 
Three of us by the Brighton line 
To see the Crystal Palace. 

Observe us, then, an eager four 
Advancing on the W^estern Door, 
Or possibly the Northern, or — 

Well, anyhow, advancing; 
Aunt Alice bending from the hips, 
And Bill in little runs and trips, 
And John with frequent hops and skips, 

While I was fairly dancing. 

Aunt Alice pays; the turnstile clicks. 
And with the happy crowds we mix 
To gaze upon — well, I was six. 
Say, getting on for seven; 



178 THE SUNNY SIDE 

And, looking back on it to-day, 
The memories have passed away — 
I find that I can only say 

(Roughly) to gaze on heaven. 

Heaven it was which came to pass 
Within those magic walls of glass 
(Though William, like a silly ass. 

Had lost my bag of bull's-eyes). 
The wonders of that wonder-hall! 
The — all the things I can't recall. 
And, dominating over all, 

The statues, more than full-size. 

Adam and Niobe were there, 
Disraeli much the worse for wear, 
Samson before he'd cut his hair, 

Lord Byron and Apollo; 
A female group surrounded by 
A camel (though I don't know why)— 
And all of them were ten feet high 

And all, I think, were hollow. 

These gods looked down on us and smiled 

To see how utterly a child 

By simple things may be beguiled 

To happiness and laughter; 
It warmed their kindly hearts to see 
The joy of Bill and John and me 
From ten to lunch, from lunch to tea, 

From tea to six or after. 



WAR-TIME 179 

That evening, when the day was dead. 
They tucked a babe of six in bed, 
Arranged the pillows for his head. 

And saw the lights were shaded; 
Too sleepy for the Good-night kiss 
His only conscious thought was this: 
*'No man shall ever taste the bhss 

That I this blessed day did.'* 

When one is six one cannot tell; 
And John, who at the Palace fell 
A victim to the Blondin Belle, 

Is wedded to another; 
And I, my intimates allow, 
Have lost the taste for bull's-eyes now. 
And baldness decorates the brow 

Of Bill, our elder brother. 

Well, more than thirty years have passed . . . 
But all the same on Thursday last 
My heart was beating just as fast 

Within that Hall of Wonder; 
My bliss was every bit as great 
As what it was in '88 — 
Impossible to look sedate 

Or keep my feelings under. 

The gods of old still gazed upon 
The scene where, thirty years agone. 
The lines of Bill and me and John 
Were cast in pleasant places; 



180 THE SUNNY SIDE 

And "Friends," I murmured, "what's the odds 
If you are rather battered gods? 
This is no time for Ichabods 
And eheu — er — fugaces." 

Ah, no; I did not mourn the years* 
Fell work upon those poor old dears. 
Nor Pitt nor Venus drew my tears 

And set me slowly sobbing; 
I hailed them with a happy laugh 
And slapped old Samson on the calf. 
And asked a member of the staff 

For "Officers Demobbing." 

That evening, being then dispersed 
I swore (as I had sworn it first 
When three of us went on the burst 

With Aunt, or Great- Aunt, Alice), 
"Although one finds, as man or boy, 
A thousand pleasures to enjoy. 
For happiness without alloy 

Give me the Crystal Palace!" 



V. HOME NOTES 



HOME NOTES 

THE WAY DOWN 

SYDNEY SMITH, or Napoleon or Marcus 
Aurelius (somebody about that time) said 
that after ten days anj^ letter would answer 
itself. You see what he meant. Left to itself 
your invitation from the Duchess to lunch next 
Tuesday is no longer a matter to worry about by 
Wednesday morning. You were either there or 
not there; it is unnecessary to write now and say 
that a previous invitation from the Prime Minis- 
ter — and so on. It was Napoleon's idea (or Dr. 
Johnson's or Mark Antony's — one of that circle) 
that all correspondence can be treated in this 
manner. 

I have followed these early Masters (or which- 
ever one it was) to the best of my ability. At 
any given moment in the last few years there have 
been ten letters that I absolutely must write, thirty 
which I ought to write, and fifty which any other 
person in my position would have written. Prob- 
ably I have written two. After all, when your 
profession is writing, you have some excuse for 
demanding a change of occupation in your leisure 
hours. No doubt if I were a coal-heaver by day, 

183 



184 THE SUNNY SIDE 

my wife would see to the fire after dinner while 
I wrote letters. As it is, she does the correspond- 
ence, while I gaze into the fire and think about 
things. 

You will say, no doubt, that this was all very 
well before the War, but that in the Army a little 
writing would be a pleasant change after the day's 
duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If, years 
ago, I had ever conceived a glorious future in 
which my autograph might be of value to the more 
promiscuous collectors, that conception has now 
been shattered. Four years in the Army has 
absolutely spoilt the market. Even were I 
revered in the year 2000 a.d. as Shakespeare is 
revered now, my half-million autographs, scat- 
tered so lavishly on charge-sheets, passes, chits, 
requisitions, indents and applications would keep 
the price at a dead level of about ten a penny. 
No, I have had enough of writing in the Army and 
I never want to sign my own name again. " Yours 
sincerely, Herbert Asquith," "Faithfully yours, 
J. Jellicoe" — these by all means; but not my own. 

However, I wrote a letter in the third year of 
the war; it was to the bank. It informed the 
Manager that I had arrived in London from France 
and should be troubling them again shortly, Lon- 
don being to all appearances an expensive place. 
It also called attention to my new address — a 
small furnished flat in which Celia and I could 
just turn round if we did it separately. When it 
I was written, then came the question of posting it. 



HOME NOTES 185 

I was all for waiting till the next morning, but 
Celia explained that there was actually a letter- 
box on our own floor, twenty yards down the 
passage. I took the letter along and dropped it 
into the slit. 

Then a wonderful thing happened. It went 

Flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - fiipperty - jlip- 
perty - flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - 
flipperty — FLOP. 

I listened intently, hoping for more . . . but 
that was all. Deeply disappointed that it was 
over, but absolutely thrilled with my discovery, 
I hurried back to Celia. 

"Any letters you want posted?" I said in an 
off-hand way. 

"No, thank you," she said. 

"Have you written any while we've been 
here.'^" 

"I don't think I've had anything to write." 

"I think," I said reproachfully, "it's quite 
time you wrote to your — your bank or your 
mother or somebody." 

She looked at me and seemed to be struggling 
for words. 

"I know exactly what you're going to say," I 
said, "but don't say it; write a little letter 
instead." 

"Well, as a matter of fact I must just write a 
note to the laundress." 

"To the laundress," I said. "Of course, just 
a note." 



186 THE SUNNY SIDE 

When It was written I Insisted on her coming 
with me to post it. With great generosity I 
allowed her to place it in the slit. A delightful 
thing happened. It went Flipperty - flipperty - 
flipperty -flipperty -flipperty -flipperty -flipperty - 
flipperty - flipperty - flipperty — FLOP. 

Right down to the letter-box in the hall. Two 
flipperties a floor. (A simple calculation shows 
that we are perched on the fifth floor. I am glad 
now that we live so high. It must be very dull to 
be on the fourth floor with only eight flipperties, 
unbearable to be on the first with only two.) 

"0-oh! How /a.9-cinating ! " said Celia. 

"Now don't you think you ought to wiite to 
your mother.'^" 

"Oh, I mustr 

She wrote. We posted it. It went 

Flipperty - flipperty However, you know 

all about that now. 

Since this great discovery of mine, life has been 
a more pleasurable business. We feel now that 
there are romantic possibilities about letters 
setting forth on their journey from our floor. To 
start life with so many flipperties might lead to 
anything. Each time that we send a letter off 
we listen in a tremble of excitement for the final 
FLOP, and when it comes I think we both feel 
vaguely that we are still waiting for something. 
We are waiting to hear some magic letter go 
flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - flipperty . . . and 
behold! there is no flop . . . and still it goes 



HOME NOTES 187 

on — flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - flipperty — 
growing fainter in the distance . . . until it ar- 
rives at some wonderland of its own. One day it 
must happen so. For we cannot listen always 
for that FLOP, and hear it always; nothing in this 
world is as inevitable as that. One day we shall 
look at each other with awe in our faces and say, 
"But it's still flipperting!" and from that time 
forward the Hill of Campden will be a place holy 
and enchanted. Perhaps on IVIidsummer Eve 

At any rate I am sure that it is the only way in 
which to post a letter to Father Christmas. 

Well, what I want to say is this: if I have been 
a bad correspondent in the past I am a good one 
now; and Celia, who was always a good one, is a 
better one. It takes at least ten letters a day to 
satisfy us, and we prefer to catch ten different 
posts. With the ten in your hand together there 
is always a temptation to waste them in one wild 
rush of flipperties, all catching each other up. It 
would be a great moment, but I do not think we 
can afford it yet; we must wait until we get more 
practised at letter-writing. And even then I am 
doubtful ; for it might be that, lost in the confusion 
of that one wild rush, the magic letter would start 
on its way — flipperty -flipperty — to the never-land, 
and we should forever have missed it. 

So, friends, acquaintances, yes, and even strang- 
ers, I beg you now to give me another chance. I 
will answer your letters, how gladly. I still think 
that Napoleon (or Canute or the younger Pliny — 



188 THE SUNNY SIDE 

one of the pre-Raphaelites) took a perfectly cor- 
rect view of his correspondence . . . but then he 
never had a letter-box which went 

Flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - fiipperty - flip- 
perty - flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - flipperty - 
flipperty — FLOP. 



HOME NOTES 189 



HEAVY WORK 

EVERY now and then doctors slap me about 
and ask me if I was always as thin as this. 
"As thin as what?" I say with as much 
dignity as is possible to a man who has had his 
shirt taken away from him. 

"As thin as this," says the doctor, hooking his 
stethoscope on to one of my ribs, and then going 
round to the other side to see how I am getting on 
there. 

I am slightly better on the other side, but he 
runs his pencil up and down me and produces that 
pleasing noise which small boys get by dragging 
a stick along railings. 

I explain that I was always delicately slender, 
but that latterly my ribs have been overdoing it. 

"You must put on more flesh," he says sternly, 
running his pencil up and down them again. (He 
must have been a great nuisance as a small boy.) 

"I will," I say fervently, "I will." 

Satisfied by my promise he gives me back my 
shirt. 

But it is not only the doctor who complains; 
Celia is even more upset by it. She says tearfully 
that I remind her of a herring. Unfortunately 
she does not like herrings. It is my hope some day 
to remind her of a turbot and make her happy. 
She, too, has my promise that I will put on flesh. 



190 THE SUNNY SIDE 

We had a fortnight's leave a Httle while ago, 
which seemed to give me a good opportunity of 
putting some on. So we retired to a house in the 
country where there is a weighing-machine in the 
bathroom. We felt that the mere sight of this 
weighing-machine twice daily would stimulate 
the gaps between my ribs. They would realize 
that they had been brought down there on 
business. 

The first morning I weighed myself just before 
stepping into the water. When I got down to 
breakfast I told Celia the result. 

"You are a herring," she said sadly. 

"But think what an opportunity it gives me. 
If I started the right weight, the rest of the fort- 
night would be practically wasted. By the way, 
the doctor talks about putting on flesh, but he 
didn't say how much he wanted. What do you 
think would be a nice amount.^*" 

"About another stone," said Celia. "You 
were just a nice size before the War." 

"All right. Perhaps I had better tell the 
weighing-machine. This is a co-operative job; 
I can't do it all myself." 

The next morning I was the same as before, and 
the next, and the next, and the next. 

"Really," said Celia, pathetically, "we might 
just as well have gone to a house where there 
wasn't a weighing-machine at all. I don't be- 
lieve it's trying. Are you sure you stand on it 
long enough .f^" 



HOME NOTES 191 

"Long enough for me. It's a bit cold, you 
know." 

"Well, make quite sure to-morrow. I must 
have you not quite so herringy." 

I made quite sure the next morning. I had 
eight stone and a half on the weight part, and 
the-little-thing-you-move-up-and-down was on the 
"4" notch, and the bar balanced midway between 
the top and the bottom. To have had a crowd 
in to see would have been quite unnecessary; 
the whole machine was shouting eight-stone- 
eleven as loudly as it could. 

"I expect it's got used to you," said Celia when 
I told her the sad state of affairs. "It likes eight- 
stone-eleven people." 

"We will give it," I said, "one more chance." 

Next morning the weights were as I had left 
them, and I stepped on without much hope, ex- 
pecting that the bar would come slow^ly up to its 
midway position of rest. To my immense delight, 
however, it never hesitated but went straight up 
to the top. At last I had put on flesh ! 

Very delicately I moved the-thing-you-move- 
up-and-down to its next notch. Still the bar 
stayed at the top. I had put on at least another 
ounce of flesh! 

I continued to put on more ounces. Still the 
bar remained up ! I was eight-stone- thirteen. . . . 
Good heavens, I was eight-stone-f ourteen ! 

I pushed the-thing-you-move-up-and-down back 
to the zero position, and exchanged the half-stone 



192 THE SUNNY SIDE 

weight for a stone one. Excited but a trifle cold, 
for it was a fresh morning, and the upper part of 
the window was wide open, I went up from nine 
stone ounce by ounce. . . . 

At nine-stone-twelve I jumped off for a moment 
and shut the window. . . . 

At eleven-stone-eight I had to get off again in 
order to attend to the bath, which was in danger 
of overflowing. . . . 

At fifteen - stone - eleven the breakfast gong 
went. . . . 

At nineteen-stone-nine I realized that I had over- 
done it. However I decided to know the worst. 
The worst that the machine could tell me was 
twenty-stone-seven. At twenty-stone-seven I left 
it. 

Celia, who had nearly finished breakfast, 
looked up eagerly as I came in. 

"Wefl.?" she said. 

"I am sorry I am late," I apologized, "but I 
have been putting on flesh." 

"Have you really gone up?" she asked ex- 
citedly. 

"Yes." I began mechanically to help myself to 
porridge, and then stopped. "No, perhaps not," 
I said thoughtfully. 

"Have you gone up much?" 

"Much," I said. "Quite much." 

"How much? Quick!" 

"Celia," I said sadly, "I am twenty-stone-seven. 



HOME NOTES 19S 

I may be more; the weighing-machine gave out 
then." 

"Oh, but, darhng, that's much too much." 

"Still, it's what we came here for," I pointed 
out. "No, no bacon, thanks; a small piece of dry 
toast." 

"I suppose the machine couldn't have made a 
mistake?" 

"It seemed very decided about it. It didn't 
hesitate at all." 

"Just try again after breakfast to make sure." 

"Perhaps I'd better try now," I said, getting 
up, "because if I turned out to be only twenty- 
stone-six I might venture on a little porridge after 
all. I shan't be long." 

I went upstairs. I didn't dare face that weigh- 
ing-machine in my clothes after the way in which 
I had already strained it without them. I took 
them off hurriedly and stepped on. To my joy 
the bar stayed in its downward position. I took 
off an ounce . . . then another ounce. The bar 
remained down. . . . 

At eighteen-stone-two I jumped off for a 
moment in order to shut the window, which some 
careless housemaid had opened again. . . . 

At twelve-stone-seven I shouted through the 
door to Celia that I shouldn't be long, and that 
I should want the porridge after all. . . . 

At four-stone-six I said that I had better have 
an egg or two as well. 



194 THE SUNNY SIDE 

At three ounces I stepped off, feeling rather 
shaken. 



I have not used the weighing-machine since; 
partly because I do not believe it is trustworthy, 
partly because I spent the rest of my leave in bed 
with a severe cold. We are now in London again, 
where I am putting on flesh. At least the doctor 
who slapped me about yesterday said that I must, 
and I promised him that I would. 



HOME NOTES 195 



THE PATRIOT 

THIS is a true story. Unless you promise to 
believe me, it is not much good my going 
on . . . You promise? Very well. 
Years ago I bought a pianola. I went into the 
shop to buy a gramophone record, and I came out 
with a pianola — so golden-tongued was the mana- 
ger. You would think that one could then retire 
into private life for a little, but it is only the 
beginning. There is the music-stool to be pur- 
chased, the library subscription, the tuner's fee 
(four visits a year, if you please), the cabinet for 
the rolls, the man to oil the pedals, the How- 
ever, one gets out of the shop at last. Nor do I 
regret my venture. It is common talk that my 
pianola was the chief thing about me which at- 
tracted Celia. "I must marry a man with a 
pianola," she said . . . and there was I . . . and 
here, in fact, we are. My blessings, then, on the 
golden tongue of the manager. 

Now there is something very charming in a 
proper modesty about one's attainments, but it is 
necessary that the attainments should be gener- 
ally recognized first. It was admirable in Stephen- 
son to have said (as I am sure he did), when they 
congratulated him on his first steam-engine, 
"Tut-tut, it's nothing"; but he could only say 



196 THE SUNNY SIDE 

this so long as the others were In a position to offer 
the congratulations. In order to place you in 
that position I must let you know how extraor- 
dinarily well I played the pianola. I brought to 
my interpretation of different Ops an elan, a 
verve, a je ne sais quoi — and several other French 
words — which were the astonishment of all who 
listened to me. But chiefly I was famous for my 
playing of one piece: " The Charge of the Uhlans," 
by Karl Bohm. Others may have seen Venice by 
moonlight, or heard the Vicar's daughter recite 
"Little Jim," but the favoured few who have been 
present when Bohm and I were collaborating are 
the ones who have really lived. Indeed, even the 
coldest professional critic would have spoken of 
it as "a noteworthy rendition." 

"The Charge of the Uhlans." If you came to 
see me, you had to hear it. As arranged for the 
pianola, it was marked to be played throughout 
at a lightning pace and with the loudest pedal on. 
So one would play it if one wished to annoy the 
man in the flat below; but a true musician has, 
I take it, a higher aim. I disregarded the "FF.'s" 
and the other sign-posts on the way, and gave it 
my own interpretation. As played by me, "The 
Charge of the Uhlans" became a whole battle 
scene. Indeed, it was necessary, before I began, 
that I should turn to my audience and describe the 
scene to them — in the manner, but not in the 
words, of a Queen's Hall programme: — 

**Er — first of all you hear the cavalry galloping 



HOME NOTES 197 

past, and then there's a short hymn before action 
while they form up, and then comes the charge, 
and then there's a slow bit while they — er — pick 
up the wounded, and then they trot slowly back 
again. And if you listen carefully to the last bit 
you'll actually hear the horses limping." 

Something like that I would say; and it might 
happen that an insufferable guest (who never got 
asked again) would object that the hymn part 
was unusual in real warfare. 

"They sang it in this piece, anyhow," I would 
say stiflQy, and turn my back on him and begin. 

But the war put a stop to music, as to many 
other things. For years the pianola was not 
played by either of us. We had other things to 
do. And in our case, curiously enough, absence 
from the pianola did not make the heart grow 
fonder. On the contrary, we seemed to lose our 
taste for music, and when at last we were restored 
to our pianola, we found that we had grown out 
of it. 

*'It's very ugly," announced Celia. 

"We can't help our looks," I said in my grand- 
mother's voice. 

"A book-case would be much prettier there." 

"But not so tuneful." 

"A pianola isn't tuneful if you never play it." 

"True," I said. 

Celia then became very alluring, and suggested 
that I might find somebody who would like to be 
lent a delightful pianola by somebody whose 



198 THE SUNNY SIDE 

delightful wife had her eye on a delightful book- 
case. 

"I might," I said. 

"Somebodj^" said Celia, "who isn't supplied 
with music from below." 

I found John. He was quite pleased with the 
idea, and promised to return the pianola when 
he got sick of it. 

So on Wednesday it went. I was not sorry, 
because in its silence it was far from beautiful, 
and we wanted another book-case badly. But 
on Tuesday evening — its last hours with us — I 
had to confess to a certain melancholy. It is sad 
to part with an old and well-tried friend, par- 
ticularly when that friend is almost entirely re- 
sponsible for your marriage. I looked at the 
pianola and then I said to Celia, "I must play it 
once again." 

"Please," said Celia. 

"The old masterpiece, I suppose?" I said, as I 
got it out. 

"Do you think you ought to — now.^ I don't 
think I want to hear a charge of the Uhlans — 
beasts; I want a charge of our own men." 

"Art," I said grandly, "knows no frontiers." 
I suppose this has been said by several people 
several times already, but for the moment both 
Celia and I thought it was rather clever. 

So I placed the roll in the pianola, sat down and 
began to play. . . . 



HOME NOTES 199 

Ah, the dear old tune. . . . 

Dash it all! 

"What's happened?" said Celia, breaking a 
silence which had become alarming. 

"I must have put it in wrong," I said. 

I wound the roll off, put it in again, and tried a 
second time, pedalling vigorously. 

Dead silence. . . . 

Hush! A note . . . another silence . . . and 
then another note. . . . 

I pedalled through to the end. About five 
notes sounded. 

"Celia," I said, "this is wonderful." 

It really was wonderful. For the first time in 
its life my pianola refused to play "The Charge 
of the Uhlans." It had played it a hundred times 
before the War, but now — no! 

We had to have a farewell piece. I put in a 
waltz, and it played it perfectly. Then we said 
good-bj^e to our pianola, feeling a reverence for 
it which we had never felt before. 

You don't believe this? Yet you promised you 
would . . . and I still assure you that it is true. 
But I admit that the truth is sometimes hard to 
believe, and the first six persons to whom I told 
the story assured me frankly that I was a liar. 
If one is to be called a liar, one may as well make 
an effort to deserve the name. I made an effort, 
therefore, with the seventh person. 



200 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"I put in 'The Charge of the Uhlans,'" I said, 
"and it played 'God Save the King.'" 

Unfortunately he was a very patriotic man, 
and he believed it. So that is how the story is now 
going about. But you who read this know the 
real truth of the matter. 



HOME NOTES 201 



A QUESTION OF LIGHT 

AS soon as Celia had got a cheque-book of her 
/-% own (and I had explained the mysteries of 

" & Co." to her), she looked round for 

a safe investment of her balance, which amounted 
to several pounds. My offers, first of an old 
stocking and afterwards of mines, mortgages and 
aerated breads, were rejected at once. 

"I'll leave a little in the bank in case of acci- 
dents," she said, "and the rest must go somewhere 
absolutely safe and earn me five per cent. Other- 
wise they shan't have it." 

We did what we could for her; we offered the 
money to archdeacons and other men of pro- 
nounced probity; and finally we invested it in the 
Blanktown Electric Light Company. Blanktown 
is not its real name, of course; but I do not like 
to let out any information which may be of value 
to Celia's enemies — the wicked ones who are try- 
ing to snatch her little fortune from her. The 
world, we feel, is a dangerous place for a young 
woman with money. 

"Can't I possibly lose it now?" she asked. 

"Only in two ways," I said. "Blanktown 
might disappear in the night, or the inhabitants 
might give up using electric light." 

It seemed safe enough. At the same time we 



202 THE SUNNY SIDE 

watched the newspapers anxiously for details of 
the latest inventions; and anybody who hap- 
pened to mention when dining with us that he 
was experimenting with a new and powerful 
illuminant was handed his hat at once. 

You have Blanktown, then, as the depository 
of Celia's fortune. Now it comes on the scene 
in another guise. I made the announcement with 
some pride at breakfast yesterday. 

"My dear," I said, "I have been asked to deliver 
a lecture." 

"Whatever on.?" asked Celia. 

"Anything I like. The last person lectured on 
*The Minor Satellites of Jupiter,' and the one who 
comes after me is doing 'The Architecture of the 
Byzantine Period,' so I can take something in 
between." 

"Like 'Frostbites,' " said Celia helpfully. "But 
I don't quite understand. Where is it, and why? " 

"The Blanktown Literary and Philosophical 
Society ask me to lecture to them at Blanktown. 
The man who was coming is ill." 

"But why you particularly.'^" 

"One comes down to me in the end," I said 
modestly. 

"I expect it's because of my electric lights. Do 
they give you any money for it.^*" 

"They ask me to name my fee." 

"Then say a thousand pounds, and lecture on 
the need for more electric light. Fancy if I got 
six per cent!" 



HOME NOTES 203 

"This Is a very sordid conversation," I said. 
"If I agree to lecture at all, it will be simply be- 
cause I feel that I have a message to deliver . . . 
I will now retire into the library and consider what 
that message is to be." 

I placed the encjxlopsedia handy and sat down 
at my desk. I had already grasped the fact that 
the title of my discourse was the important thing. 
In the list of the Society's lectures sent to me there 
was hardly one whose title did not impress the 
imagination in advance. I must be equally 
impressive . . . 

After a little thought I began to write. 



"Wasps and Their Young 

*^ Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary 
and Philosophical Society, Tuesday, December 
8th. 

^^ Ladies and Gentlemen " 

"Well," said Celia, drifting in, "how's it going?" 

I showed her how far I had got. 

"I thought you always began, 'My Lord Mayor, 
Ladies and Gentlemen,'" she said. 

"Only if the Lord Mayor's there." 

"But how will you know.'*" 

"Yes, that's rather awkward. I shall have to 
ask the Secretary beforehand."- 

I began again. 



204 THE SUNNY SIDE 



"Wasps and Their Young 

"Lecture delivered, etc. . . . 

**My Lord Mayor, my Lords, Ladies and Gentle- 
men " 

It looked much better. 

"What about Baronets?" said CeHa. "There's 
sure to be lots." 

"Yes, this is going to be difficult. I shall have 
to have a long talk with the Secretary . . . How's 
this.'^ — 'My Lord Mayor, Lords, Baronets, Ladies 
and Gentlemen and Sundries.' That's got in 
everybody." 

"That's all right. And I wanted to ask you: 
Have you got any lantern slides.'^" 

"They're not necessary." 

"But they're much more fun. Perhaps they'll 
have some old ones of Vesuvius you can work in. 
Well, good-bye." And she drifted out. 

I went on thinking. 

"No," I said to myself, "I'm on the wrong 
tack." So I began again: — 



"Some Yorkshire Pot-Holes 

"Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary 
and Philosophical Society, Tuesday, December 8th, 

*'My Lord Mayor, my Lords " 

"I don't want to interrupt," said Celia coming 
in suddenly, "but— oh, what's a pot-hole?" 



HOME NOTES 205 

"A curious underground cavern sometimes 
found in the North." 

"Aren't caverns always underground? But 
you're busy. Will you be in for lunch .'^" 

"I shall be writing my lecture all day," I said 
busily. 

At lunch I decided to have a little financial talk 
with Celia. 

"What I feel is this," I said. "At most I can 
ask ten guineas for my lecture. Now mj^ expense 
all the way to the North, with a night at an hotel, 
will be at least five pounds." 

"Five-pounds-ten profit," said Celia. "Not 
bad." 

"Ah, but wait. I have never spoken in public 
before. In an immense hall, whose acoustics " 

"Who are they.?" 

"Well, never mind. What I mean is that I 
shall want some elocution lessons. Say five, at a 
guinea each." 

"That still leaves five shillings." 

"If only it left that, it might be worth it. But 
there's a new white waistcoat. An audience soon 
gets tired of a lecture, and then there's nothing 
for the wakeful ones to concentrate on but the 
white waistcoat of the lecturer. It must be of a 
virgin whiteness. Say thirty-five shillings. So 
I lose thirty shillings by it. Can I afford so 
much.?" 

" But you gain the acoustics and the waistcoat.'* 

"True. Of course, if you insist " 



206 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Oh, you must,'' said Celia. 
So I returned to the Hbrary. By tea-time I 
had got as far as this: — 

"Adventures with a Camera in Somaliland 

'^Lecture delivered before the Blanhtown Literary 
and Philo " 

And then I had an idea. This time a brilliant 
one. 

"Celia," I said at tea, "I have been wondering 
whether I ought to take advantage of your 
generosity." 

" What generosity.? " 

"In letting me deliver this lecture." 

"It isn't generosity, it's swank. I want to be 
able to tell everybody." 

"Ah, but the sacrifices you are making." 

"Am 1?" said Celia, with interest. 

"Of course you are. Consider. I ask a fee of 
ten guineas. They cannot possibly charge more 
than a shilling a head to listen to me. It would 
be robbery. So that if there is to be a profit at 
all, as presumably they anticipate, I shall have a 
gate of at least two hundred and fifty." 

"I should hope so." 

"Two hundred and fifty. And what does that 
mean? It means that at seven-thirty o'clock 
on the night of December the 8th two hundred and 
fifty residents of Blanktown will turn out the 
electric lights in their drawing-rooms . . . per- 



HOME NOTES 207 

HAPS EVEN IN THEIR HALLS . . . and proceed to 
the lecture-room. True, the lecture-room will be 
lit up — a small compensation — but not for long. 
When the slides of Vesuvius are thrown upon the 
screen " 

Celia was going pale. 

"But if it's not you," she faltered, "it will be 
somebody else." 

"No; if I refuse, it will be too late then to get a 
substitute. Besides, they must have tried every- 
body else before they got down to me . . . Celia 
it is noble of you to sacrifice " 

"Don't go!" she cried in anguish. 

I gave a deep sigh. 

"For your sake," I said, "I won't." 

So that settles it. If my lecture on" First Prin- 
ciples in Homoeopathy" is ever to be delivered, it 
must be delivered elsewhere. 



208 THE SUNNY SIDE 



ENTER BINGO 

BEFORE I introduce Bingo I must say a 
word for Humphrey, his sparring partner. 
Humphrey found himself on the top of 
my stocking last December, put there, I fancy, 
by Celia, though she says it was Father Christ- 
mas. He is a small yellow dog, with glass optics, 
and the label round his neck said, "His eyes 
move." When I had finished the oranges and 
sweets and nuts, when Celia and I had pulled the 
crackers, Humphrey remained over to sit on the 
music-stool, with the air of one playing the 
pianola. In this position he found his uses. 
There are times when a husband may legitimately 
be annoyed; at these times it was pleasant to 
kick Humphrey off his stool on to the divan, to 
stand on the divan and kick him on to the sofa, 
to stand on the sofa and kick him on to the book- 
case; and then, feeling another man, to replace 
him on the music-stool and apologize to Celia. 
It was thus that he lost his tail. 

Here we say good-bye to Humphrey for the 
present; Bingo claims our attention. Bingo ar- 
rived as an absurd little black tub of puppiness, 
warranted (by a pedigree as long as your arm) 
to grow into a Pekinese. It was Celia's idea to 
call him Bingo; because (a rid'culous reason) as 
a child she had had a poodle called Bingo. The 



HOME NOTES S09 

less said about poodles the better; why rake up 
the past? 

"If there is the sHghtest chance of Bingo — of 
this animal growing up into a poodle," I said, 
"he leaves my house at once." 

^' My poodle," said Celia, "was a lovely dog." 

(Of course she was only a child then. She 
wouldn't know.) 

"The point is this," I said firmly, "our puppy 
is meant for a Pekinese — the pedigree says so. 
From the look of him it will be touch and go 
whether he pulls it off. To call him by the name 
of a late poodle may just be the deciding factor. 
Now I hate poodles; I hate pet dogs. A Pekin- 
ese is not a pet dog; he is an undersized lion. 
Our puppy may grow into a small lion, or a mastiff, 
or anything like that; but I will yiot have him a 
poodle. If we call him Bingo, will you promise 
never to mention in his presence that you once 
had a — a — you know what I mean — called Bingo?" 

She promised. I have forgiven her for having 
once loved a poodle. I beg you to forget about it. 
There is now only one Bingo, and he is a Pekinese 
puppy. 

However, after we had decided to call him Bingo, 
a difficulty arose. Bingo's pedigree is full of names 
like Li Hung Chang and Sun Yat Sen; had we 
chosen a sufficiently Chinese name for him? 
Apart from what was due to his ancestors, were 
we encouraging him enough to grow into a Pekin- 
ese? What was there Oriental about "Bingo "? 



210 THE SUNNY SIDE 

In itself, apparently, little. And Pingo himself 
must have felt this; for his tail continued to be 
nothing but a rat's tail, and his body to be nothing 
but a fat tub, and his head to be almost the head 
of any little puppy in the world. He felt it deeply. 
When I ragged him about it he tried to eat my 
ankles. I had only to go into the room in which 
he was, and murmur, "Rat's tail," to myself, or 
(more offensive still) "Chewed string," for him 
to rush at me. "Where, O Bingo, is that delicate 
feather curling gracefully over the back, which was 
the pride and glory of thy great-grandfather? 
Is the caudal affix of the rodent thy apology for 
it?" And Bingo would whimper with shame. 

Then we began to look him up in the map. 

I found a Chinese town called "Ning-po," 
which strikes me as very much like "Bing-go," 
and Celia found another one called "Yung-Ping," 
which might just as well be "Yung-Bing," the 
obvious name of Bingo's heir when he has one. 
These facts being communicated to Bingo, his nose 
immediately began to go back a little and his tub 
to develop something of a waist. But what finally 
decided him was a discovery of mine made only 
yesterday. There is a Japanese province called 
Bingo. Japanese, not Chinese, it is true; but at 
least it is Oriental. In any case conceive one's 
pride in realizing suddenly that one has been called 
after a province and not after a poodle. It has 
determined Bingo unalterably to grow up in the 
right way. 



HOIVIE NOTES 211 

You have Bingo now definitely a Pekinese. 
That being so, I may refer to his ancestors, always 
an object of veneration among these Easterns. 
I speak of (hats off, please!) Ch. Goodwood Lo. 

Of course you know (I didn't myself till last 
week) that "Ch." stands for "Champion." On 
the male side Champion Goodwood Lo is Bingo's 
great-great-grandfather. On the female side the 
same animal is Bingo's great-grandfather. One 
couldn't be a poodle after that. A fortnight after 
Bingo came to us we found in a Pekinese book a 
photograph of Goodwood Lo. How proud we all 
were! Then we saw above it, "Celebrities of the 
Past. The Late " 

Champion Goodwood Lo was no more! In one 
moment Bingo had lost both his great-grand- 
father and his great-great-grandfather! 

We broke it to him as gently as possible, but the 
double shock was too much, and he passed the 
evening in acute depression. Annoyed with my 
tactlessness in letting him know anything about 
it, I kicked Humphrey off his stool. Humphrey, 
I forgot to say, has a squeak if kicked in the right 
place. He squeaked. 

Bingo, at that time still uncertain of his destiny, 
had at least the courage of the lion. Just for a 
moment he hesitated. Then with a pounce he 
was upon Humphrey. 

Till then I had regarded Humphrey — save 
for his power of rolling the eyes and his habit of 
taking long jumps from the music-stool to the 



212 THE SUNNY SIDE 

book-case — as rather a sedentary character. But 
in the fight which followed he put up an amazingly 
good resistance. At one time he was underneath 
Bingo; the next moment he had Bingo down; 
first one, then the other, seemed to gain the ad- 
vantage. But blood will tell. Humphrey's an- 
cestry is unknown; I blush to say that it may 
possibly be German. Bingo had Goodwood Lo 
to support him — in two places. Gradually he 
got the upper hand ; and at last, taking the reluct- 
ant Humphrey by the ear, he dragged him labori- 
ously beneath the sofa. He emerged alone, with 
tail wagging, and was taken on to his mistress's 
lap. There he slept, his grief forgotten. 

So Humphrey was found a job. Whenever 
Bingo wants exercise, Humphrey plants himself 
in the middle of the room, his eyes cast upwards 
in an affectation of innocence. "I'm just sitting 
here," says Humphrey; "I believe there's a fly 
on the ceiling." It is a challenge which no great- 
grandson of Goodwood Lo could resist. With a 
rush Bingo is at him. "I'll learn you to stand 
in my way," he splutters. And the great dust-up 
begins. . . . 

Brave little Bingo ! I don't wonder that so war- 
like a race as the Japanese has called a province 
after him. 



HOME NOTES 213 



A WARM HALF-HOUR 

WHATEVER the papers say, it was the 
hottest afternoon of the year. At six- 
thirty I had just finished dressing after 
my third cold bath since lunch, when Celia tapped 
on the door. 

"I want you to do something for me," she said. 
"It's a shame to ask you on a day like this." 

"It is rather a shame," I agreed, "but I can 
always refuse." 

"Oh, but you mustn't. We haven't got any 
ice, and the Thompsons are coming to dinner. 
Do you think you could go and buy threepenny- 
worth .^^ Jane's busy, and I'm busy, and " 

"And I'm busy," I said, opening and shutting 
a drawer with great rapidity. 

"Just threepenny worth," she pleaded. "Nice 
cool ice. Think of sliding home on it." 

Well, of course it had to be done. I took my 
hat and staggered out. On an ordinary cool day 
it is about half a mile to the fishmonger; to-day 
it was about two miles and a quarter. I arrived 
exhausted, and with only just strength enough 
to kneel down and press my forehead against the 
large block of ice in the middle of the shop, round 
which the lobsters nestled. 

"Here, you mustn't do that," said the fishmon- 
ger, waving me away. 



214 THE SUNNY SIDE 

I got up, slightly refreshed. 

"I want," I said, "some " and then a 

thought occurred to me. 

After all, did fishmongers sell ice? Probably the 
large block in front of me was just a trade sign 
like the coloured bottles at the chemist's. Sup- 
pose I said to a fellow of the Pharmaceutical 
Society, "I want some of that green stuff in the 
window," he would only laugh. The tactful 
thing to do would be to buy a pint or two of 
laudanum first, and then, having established 
pleasant relations, ask him as a friend to lend me 
his green bottle for a bit. 

So I said to the fishmonger, "I want some — 
some nice lobsters." 

"How many would you like.'^" 

*"One," I said. 

We selected a nice one between us, and he 
wrapped a piece of "Daily Mail" round it, leaving 
only the whiskers visible, and gave it to me. The 
ice being now broken — I mean the ice being now — 
well, you see what I mean — I was now in a posi- 
tion to ask for some of his ice. 

"I wonder if you could let me have a little piece 
of your ice," I ventured. 

"How much ice do you want?" he said 
promptly. 

"Sixpenny worth," I said, feeling suddenly that 
Celia's threepennyworth sounded rather paltry. 

"Six of ice, Bill," he shouted to an inferior at 
the back, and Bill tottered up with a block about 



HOME NOTES 215 

the size of one of the lions in Trafalgar Square. 
He wrapped a piece of "Daily News" round it 
and gave it to me. 

"Is that all?" asked the fishmonger. 

"That is all," I said faintly; and, with Alger- 
non, the overwhiskered crustacean, firmly clutched 
in the right hand and Stonehenge supported on 
the palm of the left hand, I retired. 

The flat seemed a very long way away, but 
having bought twice as much ice as I wanted, and 
an entirely unnecessary lobster, I was not going 
to waste still more money in taxis. Hot though 
it was, I would walk. 

For some miles all went well. Then the ice 
began to drip through the paper, and in a little 
while, the underneath part of "The Daily News" 
had disappeared altogether. Tucking the lob- 
ster under my arm I turned the block over, so 
that it rested on another part of the paper. Soon 
that had dissolved too. By the time I had got 
half-way our Radical contemporary had been 
entirely eaten. 

Fortunately "The Daily Mail" remained. But 
to get it I had to disentangle Algernon first, and I 
had no hand available. There was only one thing 
to do. I put the block of ice down on the pave- 
ment, unwrapped the lobster, put the lobster next 
to the ice, spread its "Daily Mail" out, lifted the 
ice on to the paper, and — looked up and saw Mrs. 
Thompson approaching. 

She was the last person I wanted at that 



216 THE SUNNY SIDE 

moment. In an hour and a half she would be 
dining with us. Algernon would not be dining 
with us. If Algernon and Mrs. Thompson were 
to meet now, would she not be expecting him to 
turn up at every course.'^ Think of the long drawn- 
out disappointment for her; not even lobster 



sauce 



There was no time to lose. I decided to aban- 
don the ice. Leaving it on the pavement I 
clutched the lobster and walked hastily back the 
way I had come. 

By the time I had shaken off Mrs. Thompson I 
was almost at the fishmonger's. That decided 
me. I would begin all over again, and would 
do it properly this time. 

"I want three of ice," I said with an air. 

"Three of ice, Bill," said the fishmonger, and 
Bill gave me quite a respectable segment in "The 
Morning Post." 

"And I want a taxi," I said, and I waved my 
lobster at one. 

We drove quickly home. 

But as we neared the flat I suddenly became 
nervous about Algernon. I could not take him, 
red and undraped, past the hall-porter, past all the 
other residents who might spring out at me on the 
stairs. Accordingly, I placed the block of ice on 
the seat, took off some of its "Morning Post," 
and wrapped Algernon up decently. Then I 
sprang out, gave the man a coin, and hastened 
into the building. 



HOME NOTES 217 

"Bless you," said Celia, "have you got It? How 
sweet of you! And she took my parcel from me. 
"Now we shall be able Why, what's this?" 

I looked at it closely. 

"It's — it's a lobster," I said. "Didn't you say 
lobster?" 

"I said ice." 

"Oh," I said, "oh, I didn't understand. I 
thought you said lobster." 

"You can't put lobster in cider cup," said Celia 
severely. 

Of course I quite see that. It was foolish of 
me. However, it's pleasant to think that the 
taxi must have been nice and cool for the next man. 



218 THE SUNNY SIDE 



"WRONGLY ATTRIBUTED" 

YOU'VE heard of Willy Ferrero, the Boy 
Conductor? A musical prodigy, seven 
years old, who will order the fifth oboe 
out of the Albert Hall as soon as look at him. 
Well, he has a rival. 

Willy, as perhaps you know, does not play any 
instrument himself; he only conducts. His rival 
(Johnny, as I think of him) does not conduct as 
yet; at least, not audibly. His line is the actual 
manipulation of the pianoforte — the Paderewski 
touch. Johnny lives in the flat below, and I hear 
him touching. 

On certain mornings in the week — no need to 
specify them — I enter my library and give my- 
self up to literary composition. On the same 
mornings little Johnny enters his music-room 
(underneath) and gives himself up to musical 
composition. Thus we are at work together. 

The worst of literary composition is this: that 
when you have got hold of what you feel is a really 
powerful idea, you find suddenly that you have 
been forestalled by some earlier writer — Sophocles 
or Shakespeare or George R. Sims. Then you 
have to think again. This frequently happens 
to me upstairs; and downstairs poor Johnny will 
find to his horror one day that his great work has 



HOME NOTES 219 

already been given to the world by another — a 
certain Dr. John Bull. 

Johnny, in fact, is discovering "God Save the 
King" with one finger. 

As I dip my pen in the ink and begin to write, 
Johnny strikes up. On the first day when this 
happened, some three months ago, I rose from 
my chair and stood stiffly through the perform- 
ance — an affair of some minutes, owing to a little 
difficulty with "Send him victorious," a line 
which always bothers Johnny. However, he got 
right through it at last, after harking back no more 
than twice, and I sat down to my work again. 
Generally speaking, "God Save the King" ends 
a show; it would be disloyal to play any other 
tune after that. Johnny quite saw this . . . and 
so began to play "God Save the King" again. 

I hope that His Majesty, the Lord Chamber- 
lain, the late Dr. Bull, or whoever is most con- 
cerned, will sympathize with me when I say that 
this time I remained seated. I have my living 
to earn. 

From that day Johnny has interpreted Dr. John 
Bull's favourite composition nine times every 
morning. As this has been going on for three 
months, and as the line I mentioned has two spe- 
cial rehearsals to itself before coming out right, 
you can easily work out how many send-him- 
victoriouses Johnny and I have collaborated in. 
About two thousand. 

Very well. Now, you ask yourself, why did I 



220 THE SUNNY SIDE 

not send a polite note to Johnny's father asking 
him to restrain his Kttle boy from over-compo- 
sition, begging him not to force the child's musical 
genius too c^uickly, imploring him (in short) to 
lock up the piano and lose the key? What kept 
me from this course? The answer is "Patriotism." 
Those deep feelings for his country which one 
man will express glibly by rising nine times during 
the morning at the sound of the National Anthem, 
another will direct to more solid uses. It was my 
duty, I felt, not to discourage Johnny. He was 
showing qualities which could not fail, when he 
grew up, to be of value to the nation. Loyalty, 
musical genius, determination, patience, industry 
— never before have these qualities been so finely 
united in a child of six. Was I to say a single 
word to disturb the delicate balance of such a 
boy's mind? At six one is extraordinarily sus- 
ceptible to outside influence. A word from his 
father to the effect that the gentleman above was 
getting sick of it, and Johnny's whole life might 
be altered. 

No, I would bear it grimly. 

And then, yesterday, who should write to me 
but Johnny's father himself. This was the letter: 

"Dear Sir — I do not wish to interfere unduly 
in the affairs of the other occupants of these flats, 
but I feel bound to call your attention to the fact 
that for many weeks now there has been a flow of 
water from your bathroom, which has penetrated 



HOME NOTES 221 

through the ceiling of my bathroom, particularly 
after you have been using the room in the morn- 
ings. May I therefore beg you to be more care- 
ful in future not to splash or spill water on your 
floor, seeing that it causes inconvenience to the 
tenants beneath you? 

"Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew." 

You can understand how I felt about this. For 
months I had been suffering Johnny in silence; 
yet, at the first little drop of water from above, 
Johnny's father must break out into violent abuse 
of me. A fine reward! Well, Johnny's future 
could look after itself now; anyhow, he was 
doomed with a selfish father like that. 

"Dear Sir," I answered defiantly, "Now that 
we are writing to each other I wish to call your 
attention to the fact that for many months past 
there has been a constant flow of one-fingered 
music from your little boy, which penetrates 
through the floor of my library and makes all 
work impossible. May I beg you, therefore, to 
see that your child is taught a new tune imme- 
diately, seeing that the National Anthem has lost 
its first freshness for the tenants above him?" 

His reply to this came to-day. 

"Dear Sir, — I have no child. 

"Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew." 

I was so staggered that I could only think of 
one adequate retort. 



222 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Dear Sir," I wrote, — "I never have a bath." 

So that's the end of Johnny, my boy prodigy, 
for whom I have suffered so long. It is not 
Johnny but Jno. who struggles with the National 
Anthem. He will give up music now, for he 
knows I have the bulge on him; I can flood his 
bathroom whenever I like. Probably he will 
learn something quieter — like painting. Any- 
way, Dr. John Bull's masterpiece will rise no more 
through the ceiling of the flat below. 

On referring to my encyclopaedia, I see that, 
according to some authorities, "God Save the 
King" is " wrongly attributed " to Dr. Bull. Well, 
I wrongly attributed it to Johnny. It is easy to 
make these mistakes. 



HOME NOTES 223 



A HANGING GARDEN IN BABYLON 

** A RE you taking me to the Flower Show this 

r\ afternoon?" asked CeHa at breakfast. 

-*- -^ "No," I said thoughtfully; "no." 

"Well, that's that. What other breakfast con- 
versation have 1? Have you been to any theatres 
lately.?" 

"Do you really want to go to the Flower Show.'^" 
I asked. "Because I don't believe I could bear 
it." 

"I've saved up two shillings." 

"It isn't that — not only that. But there'll be 
thousands of people there, all with gardens of 
their own, all pointing to things and saying, 
'We've got one of those in the east bed,' or 
'Wouldn't that look nice in the south orchid 
house.?' and you and I will be quite, quite out 
of it." I sighed, and helped myself from the 
west toast-rack. 

It is very delightful to have a flat in London, 
but there are times in the summer when I long for 
a garden of my own. I show people round our 
little place, and I point out hopefully the Hot Tap 
Doultonii in the scullery, and the Dorothy Per- 
kins doormat, but it isn't the same thing as taking 
your guest round your garden and telling him 
that what you really want is rain. Until I can 
do that, the Chelsea Flower Show is no place for 
us. 



224 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Then I haven't told you the good news," 
said Celia. "We are gardeners." She paused a 
moment for effect. "I have ordered a window- 
box." 

I dropped the marmalade and jumped up 
eagerly. 

"But this is glorious news! I haven't been so 
excited since I recognized a calceolaria last year, 
and told my host it was a calceolaria just before 
he told me. A window-box! What's in it.^*" 

"Pink geraniums and — and pink geraniums, 
and — er " 

"Pink geraniums?" I suggested. 

"Yes. They're very pretty, you know." 

"I know. But I could have wished for some- 
thing more difficult. If we had something like — 
well, I don't want to seem to harp on it, but say 
calceolarias, then quite a lot of people mightn't 
recognize them, and I should be able to tell them 
what they were. I should be able to show them 
the calceolarias; you can't show people the gera- 
niums." 

"You can say, 'What do you think of that for a 
geranium.f*'" said Celia. "Anyhow," she added, 
"you've got to take me to the Flower Show now." 

"Of course I will. It is not only a pleasure, but 
a duty. As gardeners we must keep up with 
floricultural progress. Even though we start 
with pink geraniums now, we may have — er — 
calceolarias next year. Rotation of crops and — 
what not." 



HOME NOTES 225 

■j 

Accordingly we made our way in the afternoon 
to the Show. 

"I think we're a Httle over-dressed," I said as 
we paid our shilhngs. "We ought to look as if 
we'd just run up from our little window-box in 
the country and were going back by the last train. 
I should be in gaiters, really." 

"Our little window-box is not in the country," 
objected Celia. "It's what you might call a pied 
de terre in town. French joke," she added kindly. 
"Much mbre difficult than the ordinary sort." 

"Don't forget it; we can always use it again on 
visitors. Now what shall we look at first.f^" 

"The flowers first; then the tea." 

I had bought a catalogue and was scanning it 
rapidly. 

"We don't want flowers," I said. "Our win- 
dow-box — our garden is already full. It may be 
that James, the head boxer, has overdone the 
pink geraniums this year, but there it is. We 
can sack him and promote Thomas, but the mis- 
chief is done. Luckily there are other things we 
want. What about a dove-cot? I should like to 
see doves cooing round our geraniums." 

"Aren't dove-cots very big for a window-box.'^" 

"We could get a small one — for small doves. 
Do you have to buy the doves too, or do they just 
come? I never know. Or there," I broke off 
suddenly; "my dear, that's just the thing." And 
I pointed with my stick. 

"We have seven clocks already," said Celia. 



226 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"But a sun-dial! How romantic. Particularly 
as only two of the clocks go. Celia, if you'd let 
me have a sun-dial in my window-box, I would 
meet you by it alone sometimes." 

"It sounds lovely," she said doubtfully. 

"You do want to make this window-box a suc- 
cess, don't you.''" I asked as we wandered on. 
"Well, then, help me to buy something for it. I 
don't suggest one of those," and I pointed to a 
summer-house, "or even a weather-cock; but we 
must do something now we're here. For instance, 
what about one of these patent extension ladders, 
in case the geraniums grow very tall and you want 
to climb up and smell them.^* Or would you rather 
have some mushroom spawn? I would get up 
early and pick the mushrooms for breakfast. 
What do you think.?" 

"I think it's too hot for anything, and I must 
sit down. Is this seat an exhibit or is it meant 
for sitting on?" 

"It's an exhibit, but we might easily want to 
buy one some day, when our window-box gets big- 
ger. Let's try it." 

It was so hot that I think, if the man in charge 
of the Rustic Bench Section had tried to move 
us on, we should have bought the seat at once. 
But nobody bothered us. Indeed it was quite 
obvious that the news that we owned a large 
window-box had not yet got about. 

"I shall leave you here," I said, after I had 
smoked a cigarette and dipped into the cata- 
logue again, "and make my purchase. It will 



HOME NOTES 227 

be quite Inexpensive; indeed, it is marked in the 
catalogue at one-and-six-pence, which means 
that they will probably offer me the nine-shilling 
size first. But I shall be firm. Good-bye." 

I went and bought one and returned to her 
with it. 

"No, not now," I said, as she held out her hand 
eagerly. "Wait till we get home." 

It was cooler now, and we wandered through 
the tents, chatting patronizingly to the stall- 
keeper whenever we came to pink geraniums. 
At the orchids we were contemptuously sniffy. 
"Of course," I said, "for those who like orchids 

" and led the way back to the geraniums 

again. It was an interesting afternoon. 

And to our great joy the window-box was in 
position when we got home again. 

"Now!" I said dramatically, and I unwrapped 
my purchase and placed it in the middle of our 
new-made garden. 

"Whatever " 

"A slug-trap," I explained proudly. 

"But how could slugs get up here?" asked 
Celia in surprise. 

"How do slugs get anywhere? They climb up 
the walls, or they come up in the lift, or they get 
blown about by the wind — I don't know. They 
can fly up if they like; but, however it be, when 
they do come, I mean to be ready for them." 

Still, though our slug-trap will no doubt come 
in usefully, it is not what we really want. What 
we gardeners really want is rain. 



228 THE SUNNY SIDE 



SISTERLY ASSISTANCE 

I WAS talking to a very stupid man the other 
day. He was the stupidest man I have come 
across for many years. It is a hard thing 
to say of any man, but he appeared to me to be 
entirely lacking in intellect. 

It was Celia who introduced me to him. She 
had rung up her brother at the flat where he was 
staying, and, finding that he was out, she gave a 
message for him to the porter. It was simply 
that he was to ring her up as soon as he came in. 

"Ring up who.f^" said the porter. At least I 
suppose he did, for Celia repeated her name (and 
mine) very slowly and distinctly. 

"Mrs. who.?" said the porter, "What?" or "I 
can't hear," or something equally foolish. 

Celia then repeated our name again. 

There followed a long conversation between 
the two of them, the audible part of it (that is 
Celia's) consisting of my name given forth in a 
variety of intonations, in the manner of one who 
sings an anthem — hopefully, pathetically, dramati- 
cally, despairingly. 

Up to this moment I had been rather attached 
to my name. True, it wants a little explaining 
to shopkeepers. There are certain consonants 
in it which require to be elided or swallowed or 



HOME NOTES 229 

swivelled round the glottis, In order to give the 
name its proper due. But after five or six appli- 
cations the shopkeeper grasps one's meaning. 

Well, as I say, I was attached to my name. 
But after listening to Celia for five minutes I 
realized that there had been some horrible mis- 
take. People weren't called that. 

"Just wait a moment," I said to her rather 
anxiously, and picked up the telephone book. To 
my great relief I found that Celia was right. 
There was a person of that name living at my 
address. 

"You're quite right," I said. "Go on." 

"I wish I had married somebody called Jones," 
said Celia, looking up at me rather reproachfully. 
"No, no, not Jones," she added hastily down the 
telephone, and once more she repeated the un- 
happy name. 

"It isn't my fault," I protested. "You did 
have a choice; I had none. Try spelling it. It 
spells all right." 

Celia tried spelling it. 

"I'm going to spell it," she announced very 
distinctly down the telephone. "Are you ready? 
. . . M . . . No, M. M for mother." 

That gave me an idea. 

"Come away," I said, seizing the telephone; 
"leave it to me. Now, then," I called to the por- 
ter. "Never mind about the name. Just tell 
him to ring up his sister.''^ And I looked at Celia 
triumphantly. 



230 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Ask him to ring up his mother," said the 
porter. "Very well, sir." 

"No, not the mother. That was something 
else. Forget all about that mother. He's to 
ring up his sister . . . sister . . . sister." 

"You'll have to spell it," said Celia. 

"I'm going to spell it," I shouted. "Are you 
ready? . . . /S for — for sister." 

"Now you're going to muddle him," murmured 
Ceha. 

"S for sister; have you got that.'* . . . No, 
sister, idiot. I for idiot," I added quickly. "S 
for sister — this is another sister, of course. T 
for two. Got that.f^ No, two. Two anything — 

two more sisters, if you like. E for — E for " 

I turned helplessly to Celia: "quick, a word to 
begin with E ! I've got him moving now. E for — 
quick, before his tympanum runs down." 

"Er — er " Desperately she tried to think. 

"E for er," I shouted. "That'll be another 
sister, I expect . . . Celia, I believe we ought 
to spell it with an 'H. ' Can't you think of a 
better word.'*" 

"Enny," said Celia, having quite lost her nerve 
by this time. 

"E for enny," I shouted. "Any anything. 
Any of the sisters I've been telling you about. 
R for — quick, Celia!" 

"Rose," she said hastily. 

"R for Rose," I shouted. "Rose the flower — 
or the sister if you like. There you are, that's 
the whole word. Now then, I'll just spell it to 



HOME NOTES 231 

you over again. . . . Celia, I want another word 
for E. That last was a bad one." 

"Edith?" 

"Good." 

I took a deep breath and began. 

"S for sister. I for Isabel — Isabel is the name 
of the sister. S for another sister — I'll tell you 
her name directly. T for two sisters, these two 
that we're talking about. E for Edith, that's the 
second sister whose name I was going to tell you. 
R for Rose. Perhaps I ought to explain Rose. 
She was the sister whom these two sisters were 
sisters of. Got that?" I turned to Celia. "I'm 
going to get the sister idea into his head if I die 
for it." 

"Just a moment, sir," said the dazed voice of 
the porter. 

"What's the matter? Didn't I make it clear 
about Rose? She was the sister whom the " 

"Just hold the line a moment, sir," implored the 
porter. "Here's the gentleman himself coming 
in." 

I handed the telephone to Celia. "Here he is," 
I said. 

But I was quite sorry to go, for I was getting 
interested in those sisters. Rose, I think, will 
always be my favourite. Her life, though short, 
was full of incident, and there were many things 
about her which I could have told that porter. 
But perhaps he would not have appreciated them. 
It is a hard thing to say of any man, but he ap- 
peared to me to be entirely lacking in intellect. 



232 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE OBVIOUS 

CELIA liad been calling on a newly married 
friend of hers. They had been school- 
girls together; they had looked over the 
same algebra book (or whatever it was that Celia 
learnt at school— I have never been quite certain) ; 
they had done their calisthenics side by side; 
they had compared picture post cards of Lewis 
Waller, Ali, me! the fairy princes they had 
imagined together in those days . . . and here 
am I, and somewhere in the City (I believe he is 
a stockbroker) is Ermyntrude's husband, and we 
play our golf on Saturday afternoons, and go to 

sleep after dinner, and Well, anyhow, they 

were both married, and Celia had been calling on 
Ermyntrude. 

"I hope you did all the right things," I said. 
"Asked to see the wedding-ring, and admired the 
charming little house, and gave a few hints on the 
proper way to manage a husband." 

"Rather," said Celia. "But it did seem funny, 
because she used to be older than me at school." 

"Isn't she still.?" 

"Oh, no! I'm ever so much older now. . . . 
Talking about wedding-rings," she went on, as 
she twisted her own round and round, "she's got 
all sorts of things written inside hers — the date 
and their initials and I don't know what else." 



HOME NOTES 233 

"There can't be much else — unless perhaps she 
has a very large finger." 

"Well, I haven't got anything in mine," said 
Celia, mournfully. She took off the offending 
ring and gave it to me. 

On the day when I first put the ring on her 
finger, Celia swore an oath that nothing but death, 
extreme poverty or brigands should ever remove 
it. I swore too. Unfortunately it fell off in the 
course of the afternoon, which seemed to break 
the spell somehow. So now it goes off and on 
just like any other ring. I took it from her and 
looked inside. 

"There are all sorts of things here too," I said. 
"Really, you don't seem to have read your wed- 
ding-ring at all. Or, anyhow, you've been skip- 
pmg." 

"There's nothing," said Celia in the same 
mournful voice. "I do think you might have put 
something." 

I went and sat on the arm of her chair, and held 
the ring up. 

"You're an ungrateful wife," I said, "after all 
the trouble I took. Now look there," and I 
pointed with a pencil, "what's the first thing you 
see?" 

"Twenty -two. That's only the " 

"That was your age when you married me. I 
had it put in at enormous expense. If you had 
been eighteen, the man said, or — or nine, it would 
have come much cheaper. But no, I would have 



234 THE SUNNY SIDE 

your exact age. You were twenty-two and that's 
what I had engraved on it. Very well. Now 
what do you see next to it.''" 
A crown. 

"Yes. And what does that mean.^* In the 
language of — er — crowns it means 'You are my 
queen.' I insisted on a crown. It would have 
been cheaper to have had a lion, which means — 
er — lions, but I was determined not to spare my- 
self. For I thought," I went on pathetically, 
"I quite thought you would like a crown." 

"Oh, I do," cried Celia quickly, "if it really 
means that." She took the ring in her hands 
and looked at it lovingly. "And what's that 
there.'* Sort of a man's head." 

I gazed at her sadly. 

"You don't recognize it.'* Has a year of marriage 
so greatly changed me.'* Celia, it is your Ronald! 
I sat for that, hour after hour, day after day, for 
your sake, Celia. It is not a perfect likeness; in 
the small space allotted to him the sculptor has 
hardly done me justice. And there," I added, 
"is his initial 'r.' Oh, woman, the amount of 
thought I spent on that ring!" 

She came a little closer and slipped the ring on 
my finger. 

"Spend a little more," she pleaded. "There's 
plenty of room. Just have something nice written 
in it — something about you and me." 

"Like'Pisgah'.?" 

"What does that mean?" 



HOME NOTES 235 

"I don't know. Perhaps it's 'MIzpah,' or 
*Ichabod, ' or 'Habakkuk.' I'm sure there's a 
word you put on rings — I expect they'd know at 
the shop." 

"But I don't want what they know at shops. It 
must be something quite private and special." 

"But the shop has got to know about it when I 
tell them. And I don't like telling strange men in 
shops private and special things about ourselves. 
I love you, Celia, but " 

"That would be a lovely thing," she said, 
clasping her hands eagerly. 

"What?" 

"'I love you, Celia.'" 

I looked at her aghast. 

"Do you want me to order that in cold blood 
from the shopman?" 

"He wouldn't mind. Besides, if he saw us 
together he'd probably know. You aren't afraid 
of a goldsmith, are you?" 

"I'm not afraid of any goldsmith living — or 
goldfish either, if it come to that. But I should 
prefer to be sentimental in some other language 
than plain English. I could order 'Cara sposa,' 
or — or 'Spaghetti,' or anything like that, without 
a tremor." 

"But of course you shall put just whatever you 
like. Only— only let it be original. Not Miz- 
pahs." 

"Right," I said. 

For three days I wandered past gold and silver- 



236 THE SUNNY SIDE 

smiths with the ring in my pocket . . . and for 
three days Celia went about without a wedding- 
ring, and, for all I know, without even her mar- 
riage-lines in her mutf. And on the fourth day 
I walked boldly in. 

"I want," I said, "a wedding-ring engraved," 
and I felt in my pockets. "Not initials," I said, 

and I felt in some more pockets, "but — but " 

I tried the trousers pockets again. "Well, look 
here, I'll be quite frank with j'ou. I — er — want 

" I fumbled in my ticket-pocket, "I want 

*I love you' on it," and I went through the waist- 
coat pockets a third time. "'I — er- — love you.'" 

"Me.^" said the shopman, surprised. 

"I love you," I repeated mechanically. "I 

love you. I love you, I Well, look here, 

perhaps I'd better go back and get the ring." 

On the next day I was there again; but there 
was a different man behind the counter- 

"I want this ring engraved," I said. 

"Certainly. What shall we put.^*" 

I had felt the question coming. I had a sort 
of instinct that he would ask me that. But I 
couldn't get the words out again. 

"Well," I hesitated, "I— er— well." 

"Ladies often like the date put in. When is it 
to be?" 

"When is what to be?" 

"The wedding," he smiled. 

"It has been," I said. "It's all over. You're 
too late for it." 



HOME NOTES 237 

I gave myself up to thought. At all costs I 
must be original. There must be something on 
Celia's wedding-ring that had never been in any 
other's. . . . 

There was only one thing I could think of. 

The engraved ring arrived as we were at tea a 
few days later, and I had a sudden overwhelming 
fear that Celia would not be pleased. I saw that 
I must explain it to her. After all, there was a 
distinguished precedent. 

"Come into the bath-room a moment," I said, 
and I led the way. 

She followed, wondering. 

"What is that?" I asked, pointing to a blue 
thing on the floor. 

"The bath-mat," she said, surprised. 

"And what is written on it.^^" 

"Why — 'bath-mat,' of course." 

"Of course," I said . . . and I handed her the 
wedding-ring. 



VI. A FEW GUESTS 



A FEW GUESTS 

BAD LORD BLIGHT 

{A Moral Story for the Middle-aged) 



SEATED in the well-appointed library of 
Blight Llall, John Blighter, seventeenth 
Earl of Blight, bowed his head in his hands 
and gave himself up to despair. The day of 
reckoning had come. 

Were appearances not so deceptive, one would 
have said that Lord Blight ("Blight," as he was 
known familiarly to his friends) was a man to be 
envied. In a revolving book-case in the middle 
of the spacious library were countless treasured 
volumes, including a complete edition of Thack- 
eray; outside in the well-kept grounds of the 
estate was a new lawm-mower; a bottle of sherry, 
freshly uncorked, stood upon the sideboard in the 
dining-room. But worldly possessions are not 
everything. An untroubled mind, as Shakes- 
peare knew (even if he didn't actually say it), is 
more to be valued than riches. The seventeenth 
Earl of Blight's mind was not untroubled. His 
conscience was gnawing him. 

Some people would say, no doubt, that his con- 
241 



242 THE SUNNY SIDE 

science was too sensitive. True, there were 
episodes in his past Hfe of which in later years he 
could not wholly approve; but is not this the case 
with every one of us? Far better, as must often 
have occurred to Milton, to strive for the future 
than to regret the past. Ten years ago Lord 
Blight had been plain John Blighter, with no 
prospects in front of him. Realizing that he could 
expect little help from others, he decided to push 
for himself. He began bj^ pushing three cousins 
over the cliffs at Scarborough, thus becoming 
second heir to the earldom. A week later he 
pushed an elder brother over the same cliff, and 
was openly referred to in the Press as the next 
bearer of the title. Barely a fortnight had elapsed 
before a final push diverted the last member of the 
family (a valued uncle) into the ever-changing 
sea, the venue in this case being Whitby, pre- 
sumably in order to avoid suspicion. 

But all this had happened ten years ago. The 
past is the past, as Wordsworth probably said to 
Coleridge more than once. It was time for Lord 
Blight to forget these incidents of his eager and 
impetuous youth. Yet somehow he could not. 
Within the last few days his conscience had begun 
to gnaw him, and in his despair he told himself 
that at last the day of reckoning had come. Poor 
Blight! It is diflScult to withliold our sympathy 
from him. 

The door opened, and his wife, the Countess of 
Blight, came into the library. 



A FEW GUESTS 243 

"Blight!" she whispered. "My poor Blight! 
What has happened?" 

He looked up haggardly. 

"Gertie," he said, for that was her name, "it is 
all over. My sins have found me out." 

"Not sins," she said gently. "Mistakes." 

"Mistakes, yes— you are right." He stretched 
out a hand, took a letter from the desk in front of 
him and gave it to her. "Read that." With a 
groan he buried his head in his hands again. She 
took it and read, slowly and wonderingly, these 
words : — 

"To lawn-mower as delivered, £5 17s. 6d." 

Lord Blight looked up with an impatient ejacu- 
lation 

"Give it to me," he said in some annoyance, 
snatching it away from her and throwing it into 
the waste-paper basket. "Here, this is the one. 
Read it; read it quickly; for we must decide 
what to do." 

She read it with starting eyes. 

"Dear Sir, — I am prepared to lend you any- 
thing from £10 to £10,000 on your note-of-hand 
alone. Should you wish " 

"D — n!" said the seventeenth Earl of Blight. 
"Here, where is the blessed thing?" He felt in his 

pockets. "I must have I only had it a 

Ah, here it is. Perhaps I had better read it to 



244 THE SUNNY SIDE 

you this time." He put on his spectacles — a 
present from an aunt — and read as follows: — 

"My Lord, — We regret to inform you that a 
claimant to the title has arisen. It seems that, 
soon after the death of his first wife, the sixteenth 
Earl of Blight contracted a second and secret 
marriage to Ellen Podby, by whom he had eleven 
sons, the eldest of whom is now asserting his right 
to the earldom and estates. Trusting to be 
favoured with your instructions in the matter, 
"We are, my lord, 

"Yours faithfully, 
"Billings, Billings & Billings." 

Gertie (Countess of Blight) looked at her hus- 
band in horror. 

"Eleven!" she cried. 

"Eleven," said the Earl gloomily. 

Then a look of grim determination came into 
his eyes. With the air of one who might have been 
quoting Keats, but possibly wasn't, he said firmly: 

"What man has done, man can do." 

That evening the Countess of Blight gave orders 
for eleven spare bedrooms to be got ready. 

II 

On the morning after the arrival of the eleven 
Podbys (as they had been taught to call them- 
selves) John, seventeenth Earl of Blight, spoke 
quite frankly to Algernon, the eldest. 



A FEW GUESTS 245 

"After all, my dear Algernon," he said, "we are 
cousins. There is no need for harsh words be- 
tween us. All I ask is that you should forbear 
to make your claim until I have delivered my 
speech in the House of Lords on the Coast Erosion 
Bill, upon which I feel deeply. Once the Bill is 
through, I shall be prepared to retire in your 
favour. Meanwhile let us all enjoy together the 
simple pleasures of Blight Hall." 

Algernon, a fair young man with a meaningless 
expression, replied suitably. 

So for some days the eleven Podbys gave them- 
selves up to pleasure. Percy, the youngest, 
though hardly of an age to appreciate the mech- 
anism of it, was allowed to push the lawn-mower. 
Lancelot and Herbert, who had inherited the 
Podby intellect, were encouraged to browse 
around the revolving bookcase, from which they 
frequently extracted one of the works of Thack- 
eray, replacing it again after a glance at the title 
page; while on one notable occasion the Earl of 
Blight took Algernon into the dining-room at 
about 11.31 in the morning and helped him to a 
glass of sherry and a slice of sultana cake. In 
this way the days passed happily, and confidence 
between the eleven Podbys and their cousin was 
established. 

It was on a fair spring morning, just a week 
after their arrival, that the Countess of Blight 
came into the music-room (where Algernon was 
humming a tune) and said, "Ah, Algernon, my 



246 THE SUNNY SIDE 

husband was looking for you. I think he has some 
little excursion to propose. What a charming 
day, is it not? You will find him in the library." 

As Algernon entered the library, Lord Blight 
looked up from the map he was studying and 
nodded. 

"I thought," he said, coming to the point at 
once, "that it might amuse you to drive over 
with me to Flamborough Head. The view from 
the top of the cliff is considered well worth a visit. 
I don't know if your tastes lie in that direction 
at all.?" 

Algernon was delighted at the idea, and replied 
that nothing would give him greater pleasure than 
to accompany Lord Blight. 

"Excellent. Perhaps we had better take some 
sandwiches and make a day of it." 

Greatly elated at the thought of a day by the 
sea, Lord Blight went out and gave instructions 
to the Countess for sandwiches to be cut. 

"In two packets, my love," he added, "in case 
Algernon and I get separated." 

Half an hour later they started off together in 
high spirits. 



It was dark before the seventeenth Earl of 
Blight returned to the house and joined the others 
at the dinner-table. His face wore a slightly 
worried expression. 

"The fact is, my dear," he said, in answer to a 



A FEW GUESTS 247 

question from the Countess, "I am a little upset 
about Algernon. I fear we have lost him." 

"Algernon?" said the Countess in surprise. 

"Yes. We were standing at the top of Flam- 
borough Head, looking down into the sea, 

w^hen " He paused and tapped his glass, 

* Sherry, Jenkins," he said, catching the butler's eye. 

"I beg your pardon, my lord." 

" When poor Algernon stumbled and 

Do any of you boys know if your brother can 
swim.'' 

Everard, the ninth, said that Algernon had 
floated once in the Paddington Baths, but couldn't 
swim. 

"Ah! I was hoping But in any case, 

coming into the water from that height Well, 

well, we must face our troubles bravely. Another 
glass of sherry, Jenkins." 

As they passed through the hall on their way to 
the drawing-room, Lord Blight stopped a moment 
at the aneroid barometer and gave it an encour- 
aging tap. 

"It looks like another fine day to-morrow," 
he said to Cuthbert, the second Podby. "The 
panorama from the Scalby cliffs is unrivalled. 
We might drive over and have a look at it." 

m 

Fortunately the weather held up. A w^eek later 
the Podby family had been thinned down to five, 



248 THE SUNNY SIDE 

and the seventeenth Earl of Blight was beginning 
to regain his usual equanimity. His health too 
was benefiting by the constant sea air and change; 
for, in order that no melancholy associations 
should cast a gloom over their little outings, he 
took care to visit a different health-resort each 
time, feeling that no expense or trouble should be 
spared in a matter of this kind. It was wonderful 
with what vigour and alertness of mind he sat 
down in the evenings to the preparation of his 
speech on the Coast Erosion Bill. 

One night after dinner, when all the Podby 
family (Basil and Percy) had retired to bed, Gertie 
(Countess of Blight) came into her husband's 
library and, twirling the revolving bookcase with 
restless fingers, asked if she could interrupt him 
for a moment. 

"Yes.^" he said, looking up at her. 

"I am anxious, Blight," she answered. 
"Anxious about Percy." 

"So am I, my love," he responded gravely. 
"I fear that to-morrow" — he consulted a leather 
pocket-book — -"no, the day after to-morrow, 
something may happen to him. I have an uneasy 
feeling. It may be that I am superstitious. Yet 
something tells me that in the Book of Fate the 
names of Percy and Bridlington"— he consulted 
his diary again — "yes, Bridlington; the names, as 
I was saying, of " 

She interrupted him with an impatient gesture. 

"You misunderstand me," she said. "That is 



A FEW GUESTS 249 

not why I am anxious. I am anxious because of 
something I have just learnt about Percy. I am 
afraid he is going to be " 

"Troublesome?" suggested Lord Blight. 

She nodded. 

"I have learnt to-day," she explained, "that he 
has a horror of high places." 

"You mean that on the cliffs of, as it might be, 
Bridlington some sudden unbridled terror may 
cause him to hurl himself " 

"You will never get him to the cliffs of Brid- 
lington. He can't even look out of a first-floor 
window. He won't walk up the gentlest slope. 
That is why he is always playing with the lawn- 
mower." 

The Earl frowned and tapped on his desk with a 
penholder, 

"This is very grave news, Gertie," he said. 
*'How is it that the boy comes to have this un- 
manly weakness.f*" 

"It seems he has always had it." 

"He should have been taken in hand. Even 
now perhaps it is not too late. It is our duty to 
wean him from these womanish apprehensions." 

"Too late. Unless you carried him up there 
in a sack " 

"No, no," protested the Earl vigorously. "My 
dear, the seventeenth Earl of Blight carrying a 
sack! Impossible!" 

For a little while there was silence while they 
brooded over the tragic news. 



250 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Perhaps," said the CoHntess at last, "there 
are other ways. It may be that Percy is fond of 
fishing." 

Lord BHght shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 
When he spoke it was with a curiously apologetic 
air. 

"I am afraid, my dear," he said, "that you wil-l 
think me foolish. No doubt I am. You must 
put it down to the artistic temperament. But I 
tell you quite candidly that it is as impossible for 
me to lose Percy in a boating accident as it would 
be for — shall I say?— Sargent to appear as 'Ham- 
let' or a violinist to wish to exhibit at the Royal 
Academy. One has one's art, one's medium of 
expression. It is at the top of the high cliff with 
an open view of the sea that I express myself best. 
Also," he added with some heat, "I feel strongly 
that what was good enough for Percy's father, 
ten brothers, three half-brothers, not to mention 
his cousin, should be good enough for Percy." 

The Countess of Blight moved sadly from the 
room. 

"Well," she said as she stopped for a moment 
at the door, "we must hope for the best. Per- 
haps Percy will overcome this aversion in time. 
You might talk seriously to him to-morrow about 
it." 

"To-morrow," said the Earl, referring once 
more to his diary, "Basil and I are visiting the 
romantic scarps of Filey." 



A FEW GUESTS 251 



IV 

On the day following the unfortunate accident 
at Filey the Earl and Countess of Blight reclined 
together upon the cliffs of Bridlington. 

"If we only had had Percy here!" sighed the 
Earl. 

"It was something to have got him as far as the 
beach," said the Countess hopefully. "Perhaps 
in time — a little higher every day " 

The Earl sighed again. 

"The need for self-expression comes strongly 
upon the artist at a time like this," he said. "It 
is not for me to say that I have genius " 

"It is for me to say it, dear," said his wife. 

"Well, well, perhaps in my own line. And at 
the full height of one's powers to be baulked by 
the morbidity, for I can call it nothing else, of a 
Percy Podby! Gertie," he went on dreamily, "I 
wish I could make you understand something of 
the fascination which an artist finds in his medium. 
To be lying here, at the top of the world, with the 
lazy sea crawling beneath us so many feet be- 
low " 

"Look," said the Countess suddenly. She 
pointed to the beach. 

The Earl rose, stretched his head over the edge 
and gazed down. 

"Percy," he said. 

"Yes. Almost exactly beneath us.** 



252 THE SUNNY SIDE 

*'If anything fell upon him from here," said the 
Earl thoughtfully, "it is quite possible that " 

Suddenly the fascination whereof he had spoken 
to her came irresistibly home to the Countess. 

"Yes," she said, as if in a trance, "if anything 

fell upon him from here " and she gave her 

husband a thoughtful push — "it — is — quite — pos- 
sible — that 

At the word "that" the Earl reached Percy, and 
simultaneously the title expired. 

Poor Blight! — or perhaps, since the title was 
never really his, we should say "Poor Blighter!" 
It is difficult to withhold our sympathy from him. 



A FEW GUESTS 253 



HIGH JINKS AT HAPPY-THOUGHT HALL 

[An inevitable article in any decent magazine at 
Christmas-time. Read it carefully, and then have 
an uproarious time in your own little house.] 

IT was a merry party assembled at Happy- 
Thought Hall for Christmas. The Squire 
liked company, and the friends whom he had 
asked down for the festive season had all stayed 
at Happy-Thought Hall before, and were there- 
fore well acquainted with each other. No wonder, 
then, that the wit flowed fast and furious, and that 
the guests all agreed afterwards that they had 
never spent such a jolly Christmas, and that the 
best of all possible hosts was Squire Tregarthen ! 

First we must introduce some of the Squire's 
guests to our readers. The Reverend Arthur 
Manley, a clever young clergyman with a taste 
for gardening, was talking in one corner to Miss 
Phipps, a pretty girl of some twenty summers. 
Captain Bolsover, a smart cavalry officer, to- 
gether with Professor and Mrs. Smith-Smythe 
from Oxford, formed a small party in another 
corner. Handsome Jack Ellison was, as usual, 
in deep conversation with the beautiful Miss Hol- 
den, who, it was agreed among the ladies of the 
party, was not altogether indifferent to his fine 
figure and remarkable prospects. There were 



254 THE SUNNY SIDE 

other guests, but as they chiefly played the part 
of audience in the events which followed their 
names will not be of any special interest to our 
readers. Suffice it to say that they were all intelli- 
gent, well-dressed, and ready for any sort of fun. 

{Now, thank heaven, we can begin.) 

A burst of laughter from Captain Bolsover 
attracted general attention, and everybody turned 
in his direction. 

"By Jove, Professor, that's good," he said, as 
he slapped his knee; "you must tell the others 
that." 

"It was just a little incident that happened to 
me to-day as I was coming down here," said the 
Professor, as he beamed round on the company. 
"I happened to be rather late for my train, and as 
I bought my ticket I asked the clerk what time 
it was. He replied, 'If it takes six seconds for a 
clock to strike six, how long will it take to strike 
twelve .f*' I said twelve seconds, but it seems I 
was wrong." 

The others all said twelve seconds too, but they 
were all wrong. Can you guess the right answer .f^ 

When the laughter had died down, the Reverend 
Arthur Manley said : 

"That reminds me of an amusing experience 
which occurred to my housekeeper last Friday. 
She was ordering a little fish for my lunch, and the 
fishmonger, when asked the price of herrings, re- 
plied, 'Three ha'pence for one and a half,' to 
which my housekeeper said, 'Then I will have 



A FEW GUESTS 255 

twelve.' How much did she pay?" He smiled 
happily at the company. 

"One - and - sixpence, of course," said Miss 
Phipps. 

"No, no; ninepence," cried the Squire with a 
hearty laugh. 

Captain Bolsover made it come to £l 3.9. 2^d., 
and the Professor thought fourpence. But once 
again they were all wrong. What do you make 
it come to? 

It was now Captain Bolsover's turn for an 
amusing puzzle, and the others turned eagerly 
towards him. 

"What was that one about a door?" said the 
Squire. "You were telling me when we were out 
shooting yesterday, Bolsover." 

Captain Bolsover looked surprised. 

"Ah, no, it was young Reggie Worlock," said 
the Squire with a hearty laugh. 

"Oh, do tell us. Squire," said everybody. 

"It was just a little riddle, my dear," said the 
Squire to Miss Phipps, always a favourite of his. 
"When is a door not a door?" 

Miss Phipps said when it was a cucumber; but 
she was wrong. So were the others. See if you 
can be more successful. 

"Yes, that's very good," said Captain Bolsover; 
"it reminds me of something which occurred 
during the Boer War." 

Everybody listened eagerly. 

"We were just going into action, and I hap- 



256 THE SUNNY SIDE 

pened to turn round to my men and say, *Now, 
then, boys, give 'em beans!' To my amusement 
one of them replied smartly, 'How many blue 
beans make five?' We were all so interested in 
working it out that we never got into action at 
all." 

"But that's easy," said the Professor. "Five." 

"Four," said Miss Phipps. (She would. Silly 
kid!) 

"Six," said the Squire. 

Which was right .^^ 

Jack Ellison had been silent during the laughter 
and jollity, always such a feature of Happy- 
Thought Hall at Christmas-time, but now he 
contributed an ingenious puzzle to the amusement 
of the company. 

"I met a man in a motor-'bus," he said in a 
quiet voice, "who told me that he had four sons. 
The eldest son, Abraham, had a dog who used to 
go and visit the three brothers occasionally. 
The dog, my informant told me, was very unwill- 
ing to go over the same ground twice, and yet 
being in a hurry wished to take the shortest 
journey possible. How did he manage it?" 

For a little while the company was puzzled. 
Then, after deep thought, the Professor said : 

"It depends on where they lived." 

"Yes," said Ellison. "I forgot to say that my 
acquaintance drew me a map." He produced a 
paper from his pocket. "Here it is." 

The others immediately began to puzzle over 



A FEW GUESTS 257 

the answer, Miss Phlpps being unusually foolish, 
even for her. It was some time before they dis- 
covered the correct route. What do you think 
it is.? 

"Well," said the Squire, with a hearty laugh, 
"it's time for bed." 

One by one they filed off, saying what a delight- 
ful evening they had had. Jack Ellison was par- 
ticularly emphatic, for the beautiful Miss Holden 
had promised to be his wife. He, for one, will 
never forget Christmas at Happy-Thought Hall. 



258 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE ARRIVAL OF BLACKMAN'S 
WARBLER 

1AM become an Authority on Birds. It hap- 
pened in this way. 
The other day we heard the Cuckoo in 
Hampshire. (The next morning the papers an- 
nounced that the Cuckoo had been heard in 
Devonshire — possibly a different one, but in no 
way superior to ours except in the matter of its 
Press agent.) Well, everybody in the house said, 
"Did you hear the Cuckoo.^" to everybody else, 
until I began to get rather tired of it; and, having 
told everybody several times that I had heard it, 
I tried to make the conversation more interesting. 
So, after my tenth "Yes," I added quite casually: 

"But I haven't heard the Tufted Pipit yet. 
It's funny why it should be so late this year." 

"Is that the same as the Tree Pipit.'^" said my 
hostess, who seemed to know more about birds 
than I had hoped. 

"Oh, no," I said quickly. 

"What's the difference exactly .f*" 

"Well, one is tufted," I said, doing my best, 
"and the other — er — climbs trees." 

"Oh, I see." 

"And of course the eggs are more speckled," I 
added, gradually acquiring confidence. 

"I often wish I knew more about birds," she 



A FEW GUESTS 259 

said regretfully. "You must tell us something 
about them now we've got you here." 

And all this because of one miserable Cuckoo ! 

"By all means," I said, wondering how long it 
would take to get a book about birds down from 
London. 

However, it was easier than I thought. We 
had tea in the garden that afternoon, and a bird 
of some kind struck up in the plane-tree. 

"There, now," said my hostess, "what's that.^*" 

I listened with my head on one side. The bird 
said it again. 

"That's the Lesser Bunting," I said hopefully. 

"The Lesser Bunting," said an earnest-looking 
girl; "I shall always remember that." 

I hoped she wouldn't, but I could hardly say so. 
Fortunately the bird lesser-bunted again, and I 
seized the opportunity of playing for safety. 

"Or is it the Sardinian White-throat.'*" I won- 
dered. "They have very much the same note 
during the breeding season. But of course the 
eggs are more speckled," I added casually. 

And so on for the rest of the evening. You see 
how easy it is. 

However, the next afternoon a more unfortunate 
occurrence occurred. A real Bird Authority came 
to tea. As soon as the information leaked out, I 
sent up a hasty prayer for bird-silence until we had 
got him safely out of the place; but it was not 
granted. Our feathered songster in the plane- 
tree broke into his little piece. 



260 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"There," said my hostess — "there's that bird 
again." She turned to me. "What did you say 
it was?" 

I hoped that the Authority would speak first, 
and that the others would then accept my assur- 
ance that they had misunderstood me the day 
before; but he was entangled at that moment in a 
watercress sandwich, the loose ends of which were 
still waiting to be tucked away. 

I looked anxiously at the girl who had promised 
to remember, in case she wanted to say something, 
but she also was silent. Everybody was silent 
except that miserable bird. 

Well, I had to have another go at it. "Black- 
man's Warbler," I said firmly. 

"Oh, yes," said my hostess. 

"Blackman's Warbler; I shall always remember 
that," lied the earnest-looking girl. 

The Authority, who was free by this time, 
looked at me indignantly. 

"Nonsense," he said; "it's the Chiff-chaff." 

Everybody else looked at me reproachfully. 
I was about to say that "Blackman's Warbler" 
was the local name for the Chiff-chaff in our part 
of Somerset, when the Authority spoke again. 

"The Chiff-chaff," he said to our hostess with 
an insufferable air of knowledge. 

I wasn't going to stand that. 

"So 7 thought when I heard it first," I said, 
giving him a gentle smile, 



A FEW GUESTS 261 

It was now the Authority's turn to get the re- 
proachful looks. 

"Are they very much alike?" my hostess asked 
me, much impressed. 

"Very much. Blackman's Warbler is often 
mistaken for the Chiff-chaff, even by so-called 
experts" — and I turned to the Authority and 
added, "Have another sandwich, won't you?" — 
"particularly so, of course, during the breeding 
season. It is true that the eggs are more speckled, 
but " 

"Bless my soul," said the Authority, but it was 
easy to see that he was shaken, "I should think I 
know a Chiff-chaff when I hear one." 

"Ah, but do you know a Blackman's Warbler? 
One doesn't often hear them in this country. Now 
in Algiers " 

The bird said "Chiff-chaff" again with an al- 
most indecent plainness of speech. 

"There you are!" I said triumphantly. "Lis- 
ten," and I held up a finger. "You notice the 
difference? Obviously a Blackman's Warbler." 

Everybody looked at the Authority. He was 
wondering how long it would take to get a book 
about birds down from London, and deciding that 
it couldn't be done that afternoon. Meanwhile 
he did not dare to repudiate me. For all he had 
caught of our mumbled introduction I might have 
been Blackman myself. 

"Possibly you're right," he said reluctantly. 



262 THE SUNNY SIDE 

Another bird said "Chiff-chaff" from another 
tree and I thought it wise to be generous. 
"There," I said, "now that was a Chiff-chaff." 

The earnest-looking girl remarked (silly crea- 
ture) that it sounded just like the other one, but 
nobody took any notice of her. They were all 
busy admiring me. 

Of course I mustn't meet the Authority again, 
because you may be pretty sure that when he 
got back to his books he looked up Blackman's 
Warbler and found that there was no such animal. 
But if you mix in the right society, and only see 
the wrong people once, it is really quite easy to 
be an authority on birds — or, I imagine, on any- 
thing else. 



A FEW GUESTS 26S 



THE LAST STRAW 

IT was one of those summer evenings with the 
chill on, so after dinner we lit the smoking- 
room fire and wondered what to do. There 
were eight of us; just the right number for two 
bridge tables, or four picquet pairs, or eight 
patience singles. 

"Oh, no, not cards," said Celia quickly. 
"They're so dull." 

"Not when you get a grand slam," said our host, 
thinking of an accident which had happened to 
him the night before. 

"Even then I don't suppose anybody laughed." 

Peter and I, who were partners on that occasion, 
admitted that we hadn't laughed. 

"Well, there you are," said Celia triumphantly. 
"Let's play proverbs." 

"I don't think I know it," said Herbert. (He 
wouldn't.) 

"Oh, it's quite easy. First you think of a 
proverb." 

"Like 'A burnt camel spoils the moss,'" I ex- 
plained. 

"You mean 'A burnt child dreads the fire,'" 
corrected Herbert. 

Celia caught my eye and went on hurriedly, 
"Well, then somebody goes outside, and then he 
asks questions — — " 

"From outside.'^" asked Mrs. Herbert, 



264 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"From inside," I assured her. "Generally 
from very near the fire, because he has got so cold 
waiting in the hall." 

"Oh, yes, I see." 

"And then he asks questions, and we each have 
to get one of the words of the proverb into our 
answer, without letting him know what the prov- 
erb is. It's rather fun." 

Peter and his w if e, who knew the game, agreed. 
Mrs. Herbert seemed resigned to the w^orst, but 
Herbert, though faint, was still pursuing. 

"But doesn't he guess what the proverb is?" 
he asked. 

"Sometimes," I admitted. "But sometimes, 
if we are very, very clever, he doesn't. That, in 
fact, is the game." 

Our host got up and went to the door. 

"I think I see," he said; "and I w^ant my pipe 
anyhow. So I'll go out first." 

"Now then," said Celia, when the door was 
safely closed, "what shall we have.'*" 

Of course you know this game, and you know 
the diflficulty of thinking of a proverb which has 
no moss or stable-doors or glasshouses in it; all 
of them words which it is impossible to include 
naturally in an answer to an ordinary question. 
The proverbs which Mrs. Herbert suggested were 
full of moss. 

"What about 'It's never too late to mend?'" 
said Mrs. Peter. "The only difficult word is 
*mend.'" 



A FEW GUESTS 265 

"We mustn't have less than seven words, one 
for each of us." 

"Can't we get something from Solomon for 
a change?" said Peter. "'A roaring lion is a 
calamity to its father, but the cautious man cometh 
not again.' That sort of thing." 

"We might try it," said Celia doubtfully, not 
feeling quite sure if it were a real proverb; "but 
'cometh' would be difficult." 

"I don't see why," said Herbert. "One could 
alwaj^s work it in somehow." 

"Well, of course, if he asked you, 'By what 
train cometh thou up in the mornings?' you could 
answer, 'I cometh up by the ten-fifteen.' Only 
you don't get that sort of question as a rule." 

"Oh, I see," said Herbert. "I didn't quite 
understand." 

"After all, its really much more fun having 
camels and things," said Celia. '"It's the last 
straw that breaks the camel's back.' Who'll do 
'camels'? You'd better," she added kindly to me. 

Everybody but myself seemed to think that 
this was much more fun. 

"I'll do 'straw,'" said Peter generously, where- 
upon Celia volunteered for "breaks." There 
were seven of us for nine words. We gave Mrs. 
Herbert the second "the," fearing to trust her 
with anything more alarming and in order to 
keep it in the family we gave the other "the" to 
Herbert, who was also responsible for "back." 
Our hostess had "last" and Mrs. Peter had "that." 



266 THE SUNNY SIDE 

All this being settled, our host was admitted into 
his smoking-room again. 

"You begin with me," I said, and I was 
promptly asked, "How many blue beans make 
five?" When I had made a suitable answer into 
which "it's" came without much difficulty, our 
host turned to Herbert. Herbert's face had 
already assumed a look of strained expectancy. 

"Well, Herbert, what do you think of Lloyd 
George.'^" 

"Yes," said Herbert. " Yes— er— yes." He 
wiped the perspiration from his brow. "He — er — 
that is to say — er — Lloyd George, yes." 

"Is that the answer.^*" said our host, rather 
surprised. 

Herbert explained hastily that he hadn't really 
begun yet, and with the aid of an anecdote about 
a cousin of his who had met Winston Churchill 
at Dieppe once, he managed to get "the" in sev- 
eral times before blowing his nose vigorously and 
announcing that he had finished. 

"I believe he's playing a different game," 
murmured Celia to Mrs. Peter. 

The next three words were disposed of easily 
enough, a lucky question to Peter about the 
weather giving him an opportunity to refer to 
his straw hat. It was now Celia's turn for 
"breaks." 

"Nervous.f^" I asked her. 

"All of a twitter," she said. 



A FEW GUESTS 267 

"Well, Celia," said our host, "how long are 
you going to stay with us?" 

"Oh, a long time yet," said Celia confidently. 

"Till Wednesday, anyhow," I interrupted, 
thinking it a good opportunity to clinch the 
matter. 

"We generally stay," explained Celia, "until 
our host breaks it to us that he can't stick us any 
longer." 

"Not that that often happens," I added. 

"Look here, which of you is answering the 
question.'^" 

"I am," said Celia firmly. 

"Well, have you answered it yet?" 

"To tell the truth I've quite forgotten the word 

that Oh, I remember now. Yes," she went 

on very distinctly and slowly, "I hope to remain 
under your roof until next Wednesday morn. 
Whew!" and she fanned herself with her hand- 
kerchief. 

Mrs. Herbert repeated her husband's triumph 
with "the," and then it was my turn again for 
these horrible camels. My only hope was that 
our host would ask me if I had been to the Zoo 
lately, but I didn't see why he should. He 
didn't. 

"Would it surprise you to hear," he asked, 
"that the President of Czecho-Slovakia has a very 
long beard?" 

"If it had only been 'goats,'" I murmured to 



268 THE SUNNY SIDE 

myself. Aloud I said, "What?" in the hope of 
gaining a little more time. 

He repeated his question. 

"No," I said slowly, "no, it wouldn't," and I 
telegraphed an appeal to Celia for help. She nod- 
ded back at me. 

"Have you finished.'*" asked our host. 

"Good Lord, no, I shall be half an hour yet. 
The fact is you've asked the wrong question. 
You see, I've got to get in 'moss.'" 

"I thought it was 'camels,'" said Celia care- 
lessly. 

"No, 'moss.' Now if you'd only asked me a 

question about gardening You see, the 

proverb we wanted to have first of all was 'People 
who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones,' 
only 'throw' was so diflScult. Almost as difficult 

as " I turned to Celia. "What was it you 

said just now. 5^ Oh yes, camels. Or stable doors, 
or frying-pans. However, there it is." And I 
enlarged a little more on the difficulty of getting 
in these difficult words. 

"Thank you very much," said our host faintly 
when I had finished. 

It was the last straw which broke the camel's 
back, and it was Herbert who stepped forward 
blithely with the last straw. Our host, as he 
admitted afterwards, was still quite in the dark, 
and with his last question he presented Herbert 
with an absolute gift, 



A FEW GUESTS 269 

"When do you go back to Devonshire?" he 
asked. 

"We — er — return next month," answered Her- 
bert. "I should say," he added hastily, "we go 
back next month." 

My own private opinion was that the sooner 
he returned to Devonshire the better. 



270 THE SUNNY SIDE 



DISILLUSIONED 

THE card was just an ordinary card. 
The letter just an ordinary letter. 
The letter simply said "Dear Mr. Brown, 
I'm asked by Mrs. Phipp to send you this"; 
The card said, "Mrs. Philby Phipp, At Home," 
And in a corner, "Dancing, 10 p.m.," 
No more — except a date, a hint in French 
That a reply would not be deemed offensive. 
And, most important, Mrs. Phipp's address. 

Destiny, as the poets have observed 
(Or will do shortly) is a mighty thing. 
It takes us by the ear and lugs us firmly 
Down different paths towards one common goal. 
Paths pre-appointed, not of our own choosing; 
Or sometimes throws two travellers together, 
Marches them side by side for half a mile, 
Then snatches them apart and hauls them on- 
ward. 
Thus happened it that Mrs. Phipp and I 
Had never met to any great extent. 
Had never met, as far as I remembered. 
At all . . . And yet there must have been a time 
When she and I were very near together. 
When some one told her, " That is Mr. Brown," 
Or introduced us " This is Mr. Brown," 
Or asked her if she'd heard of Mr. Brown; 



A FEW GUESTS 271 

I know not what, I only know that now 
She stood At Home in need of Mr. Brown, 
And I had pledged myself to her assistance. 

Behold me on the night, the latest word 

In all that separates the gentleman 

(And waiters) from the evening-dress-less mob. 

And graced, moreover, by the latest word 

In waistcoats such as mark one from the waiters. 

My shirt, I must not speak about my shirt; 

My tie, I cannot dwell upon my tie — 

Enough that all was neat, harmonious. 

And suitable to Mrs. Philby Phipp. 

Behold me, then, complete. A hasty search 

To find the card, and reassure myself 

That this is certainly the day — (It is) — 

And 10 p.m. the hour; "p.m.," not "a.m.," 

Not after breakfast — good; and then outside, 

To jump into a cab and take the winds, 

The cold east winds of March, with beauty. So. 

Let us get on more quickly. Looms ahead 
Tragedy. Let us on and have it over. 

I hung with men and women on the stairs 

And watched the tall white footman take the 

names. 
And heard him shout them out, and there I shaped 
My own name ready for him, "Mr. Brown." 
And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name. 
Would, I imagined, brighten suddenly 



272 THE SUNNY SIDE 

And smile and say, "How are you, Mr. Brown?'* 
And in an instant I'd remember her, 
And where we met, and who was Mr. Phipp, 
And all the jolly time at Grindelwald 
(If that was where it was) ; and she and I 
Would talk of Art and Politics and things 
As we had talked these many years ago. . . • 
So "Mr. Brown" I murmured to the man. 
And he — the fool! — he took a mighty breath 
And shouted, "Mr. BROWNIE!"— Brownie! Yes, 
He shouted "Mr. BROWNIE" to the roof. 
And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name. 
Brightened up suddenly and smiled and said, 
"How are you, Mr. Brownie.^^" — (Brownie! Lord!) 
And, while my mouth was open to protest, 
^'How do you do.^" to some one at the back. 
So I was passed along into the crowd 
As Brownie! 

Who on earth is Mr. Brownie? 
Did he, I wonder, he and Mrs. Phipp 
Talk Art and Politics at Grindelwald, 
Or did one simply point him out to her 
With " That is Mr. Brownie.'^" Were they friends. 
Dear friends, or casual acquaintances? 
She brightened at his name, some memory 
Came back to her that brought a happy smile — 
Why surely they were friends! But I am Brown, 
A stranger, all unknown to Mrs. Phipp, 
As she to me, a common interloper — 
I see it now — an uninvited guest, 
Whose card was clearly meant for Mr. Brownie. 



A FEW GUESTS 273 

Soft music fell, and the kaleidoscope 
Of lovely woman glided, swayed and turned 
Beneath the shaded lights; but Mr. Brownie 
{Ne Brown, not Brownie) stood upon one side 
And brooded silently. Some spoke to him; 
Whether to Brown or Brownie mattered not. 
He did not answer, did not notice them. 
Just stood and brooded . . . Then went home to 
bed. 



274 THE SUNNY SIDE 

A FEW TRICKS FOR CHRISTMAS 

{In the manner of many contemporaries) 

NOW that the "festive season" (copyright) is 
approaching, it behoves us all to prepare 
ourselves in some way to contribute to the 
gaiety of the Christmas house-party. A clever 
conjurer is welcome anywhere, and those of us 
whose powers of entertainment are limited to the 
setting of booby-traps or the arranging of apple- 
pie beds must view with envy the much greater 
tribute of laughter and applause which is the lot 
of the prestidigitator with some natural gift for 
legerdemain. Fortunately there are a few simple 
conjuring tricks which are within the reach of us 
all. With practice even the clumsiest of us can 
obtain sufficient dexterity in the art of illusion to 
puzzle the most observant of our fellow-guests. 
The few simple tricks which I am about to explain, 
if studied diligently for a few days before Christ- 
mas, will make a genuine addition to the gaiety of 
any gathering, and the amateur prestidigitator 
(if I may use that word again) will find that he is 
amply repaying the hospitality of his host and 
hostess by his contribution to the general 
festivity. 

So much by way of introduction. It is a difficult 
style of writing to keep up, particularly when the 



A FEW GUESTS 275 

number of synonyms for "conjuring" is so strictly 
limited. Let me now get to the tricks. I call 
the first 

HOLDING THE LEMON 

For this trick you want a lemon and a pack of 
ordinary playing-cards. Cutting the lemon in 
two, you hand half to one member of your audi- 
ence and half to another, asking them to hold the 
halves up in full view of the company. Then, 
1 taking the pack of cards in your own hands, you 
offer it to a third member of the party, requesting 
him to select a card and examine it carefully. 
"When he has done this he puts it back in the pack, 
and you seize this opportunity to look hurriedly 
at the face of it, discovering (let us say) that it is 
the five of spades. Once more you shuffle the 
pack; and then, going through the cards one by 
one, you will have no difficulty in locating the five 
of spades, which you will hold up to the company 
with the words "I think this is your card, sir" — 
whereupon the audience will testify by its sur- 
prise and appreciation that you have guessed 
correctly. 

It will be noticed that, strictly speaking, the 
lemon is not a necessary adjunct of this trick; but 
the employment of it certainly adds an air of 
mystery to the initial stages of the illusion, and 
this air of mystery is, after all, the chief stock-in- 
trade of the successful conjurer. 

For my next trick, which I call 



276 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE ILLUSORY EGG 

and which is most compHcated, you require a 
sponge, two tablecloths, a handful of nuts, a rab- 
bit, five yards of coloured ribbon, a top-hat with 
a hole in it, a hard-boiled egg, two florins and a 
gentleman's watch. Having obtained all these 
things, which may take some time, you put the 
two tablecloths aside and separate the other 
articles into two heaps, the rabbit, the top-hat, 
the hard-boiled egg, and the handful of nuts being 
in one heap, and the ribbon, the sponge, the 
gentleman's watch and the two florins in the other. 
This being done, you cover each heap with a table- 
cloth, so that none of the objects beneath is in 
any way visible. Then you invite any gentleman 
in the audience to think of a number. Let us 
suppose he thinks of 38. In that case you ask any 
lady in the audience to think of an odd number, 
and she suggests (shall we say.^^) 29. Then, ask- 
ing the company to watch you carefully, you — 

you 

To tell the truth, I have forgotten just what 
it is you do do, but I know that it is a very good 
trick, and never fails to create laughter and be- 
wilderment. It is distinctly an illusion worth 
trying, and, if you begin it in the manner I have 
described, quite possibly some way of finishing 
it up will occur to you on the spur of the moment. 
By multiplying the two numbers together and 
passing the hard-boiled egg through the sponge 



A FEW GUESTS 277 

and then taking the ... or is it the Any- 
way, I'm certain you have to have a piece of elastic 
up the sleeve . . . and I know one of the florins 

has to No, it's no good, I can't remember it. 

But mention of the two numbers reminds me of 
a trick which I haven't forgotten. It is a thought- 
reading illusion, and always creates the maximum 
of wonderment amongst the audience. It is called 

THE THREE QUESTIONS 

As before, you ask a gentleman in the company 
to write down a number on a piece of paper, and 
a lady to write down another number. These 
numbers they show to the other guests. You 
then inform the company that you will ask any 
one of them three questions, and by the way they 
are answered you will guess what the product of 
the two numbers is. (For instance, if the num- 
bers were 13 and 17, then 13 multiplied by 17 is — 
let's see, thirteen sevens are — thirteen sevens — 
seven threes are twenty-one, seven times one is — 
well, look here, let's suppose the numbers are 10 
and 17. Then the product is 170, and 170 is the 
number you have got to guess.) 

Well, the company selects a lady to answer your 
questions, and the first thing you ask her is: 
"When was Magna Charta signed.''" Probably 
she says that she doesn't know. They you say, 
"What is the capital of Persia?" She answers 
Timbuctoo, or Omar Khayyam, according to 



278 THE SUNNY SIDE 

how well informed she Is. Then comes your last 
question: "What makes lightning?" She is 
practically certain to say, "Oh, the thunder." 
Then you tell her that the two numbers multi- 
plied together come to 170. 

How is this remarkable trick performed.'* It is 
quite simple. The two people whom you asked 
to think of the numbers are confederates, and you 
arranged with them beforehand that they should 
write down 10 and 17. Of course it would be a 
much better trick if they weren't confederates; 
but in that case I don't quite know how you would 
do it. 

I shall end up this interesting and instructive 
article with a rather more difficult illusion. For 
the tricks I have already explained it was suffi- 
cient that the amateur prestidigitator (I shall only 
say this once more) should know how it was done; 
for my last trick he will also require a certain apti- 
tude for legerdemain in order to do it. But a 
week's quiet practice at home will give him all 
the skill that is necessary, 

THE MYSTERIOUS PUDDING 

is one of the oldest and most popular illusions. 
You begin by borrowing a gold watch from 
one of your audience. Having removed the works, 
you wrap the empty case up in a handkerchief 
and hand it back to him, asking him to put it in 
his waistcoat pocket. The works you place in an 
ordinary pudding basin and proceed to pound up 



A FEW GUESTS 279 

with a hammer. Having reduced them to powder, 
you cover the basin with another handkerchief, 
which you borrow from a member of the com- 
pany, and announce that you are about to make a 
phim-pudding. Cutting a small hole in the top 
of the handkerchief, you drop a lighted match 
through the aperture; whereupon the handker- 
chief flares up. When the flames have died down 
you exhibit the basin, wherein (to the surprise 
of all) is to be seen an excellent Christmas pud- 
ding, which you may ask your audience to sample. 
At the same time you tell the owner of the watch 
that if he feels in his pockets he will find his prop- 
erty restored to him intact; and to his amazement 
he discovers that the works in some mysterious 
way have got back into his watch, and that the 
handkerchief in which it was wrapped up has 
gone! 

Now for the explanation of this ingenious illu- 
sion. The secret of it is that you have a second 
basin, with a pudding in it, concealed in the palm 
of your right hand. At the critical moment, 
when the handkerchief flares up, you take ad- 
vantage of the excitement produced to substi- 
tute the one basin for the other. The watch from 
which you extract the works is not the borrowed 
one, but one which you have had concealed be- 
tween the third and fourth fingers of the left hand. 
You show the empty case of this watch to the 
company, before wrapping the watch in the hand- 
kerchief and handing it back to its owner. Mean- 



280 THE SUNNY SIDE 

while with the aid of a Httle wax you have at- 
tached an invisible hair to the handkerchief, the 
other end of it being fastened to the palm of j'^our 
left hand. With a little practice it is not difficult 
to withdraw the handkerchief, by a series of trifling 
jerks, from the pocket of your fellow-guest to its 
resting place between the first and second finger 
of your left hand. 

One word more. I am afraid that the borrowed 
handkerchief to which you applied the match 
really did get burnt, and you will probably have 
to offer the owner one of your own instead. That 
is the only weak spot in one of the most baffling 
tricks ever practised by the amateur prestidig- 
itator (to use the word for the last time). It 
will make a fitting climax to your evening's en- 
tertainment — an entertainment which will ensure 
you another warm invitation next year when the 
"festive season" (copyright) comes upon us once 
again. 



VII. AND OTHERS 



AND OTHERS 

MY FILM SCENARIO 

[Specially written for Economic Pictures, Limited, whose Manager 
has had the good fortune to pick up for a mere song (or, to be more 
accurate, for a few notes) several thousand miles of discarded cinema 
films from a bankrupt company. The films comprise the well- 
known "Baresark Basil, the Pride of the Ranch" (two miles long), 
"The Foiler Foiled" (one mile, three furlongs, two rods, poles or 
perches), "The Blood-stained Vest" (fragment — eighteen inches), 
"A Maniac's Revenge" (5,000 feet), "The Life of the Common 
Mosquito" (six legs), and so forth.] 

TWENTY-FIVE years before our film opens, 
Andrew Bellingham, a young man just 
about to enter his father's business, was 
spending a hohday in a Httle fishing village in 
Cornwall. The daughter of the sheep-farmer 
with whom he lodged was a girl of singular beauty, 
and Andrew's youthful blood was quickly stirred 
to admiration. Carried away by his passion for 
her, he — 

[IVIanager. Just a reminder that Mr. T. P. 
O'Connor has to pass this before it can be produced.] 
— he married her — 

[Manager. Oh, I beg pardon.] 
— and for some weeks they lived happily together. 
One day he informed Jessie that he would have to 

283 



284 THE SUNNY SIDE 

go back to his work in London, and that it might 
be a year or more before he could acknowledge 
her openly as his wife to his rich and proud parents. 
Jessie was prostrated with grief; and late that 
afternoon her hat and fringe-net were discovered 
by the edge of the waters. Realizing at once 
that she must have drowned herself in her dis- 
tress, Andrew took an affecting farewell of her 
father and the sheep, and returned to London. 
A year later he married a distant cousin, and soon 
rose to a condition of prosperity. At the time 
our film begins to unwind, he was respected by 
everybody in the City, a widower, and the father 
of a beautiful girl of eighteen called Hyacinth. 

[Manager. Now we're off. What do we start 
vnth?] 



On the sunny side of Fenchurch Street — 

[]VL\.NAGER. Ah, then I suppose ive'd better keep 

back the Rescue from the Alligator and the Plunge 

down Niagara in a Barrel.] 

— Andrew Bellingham was dozing in his office. 

Suddenly he awoke to find a strange man standing 

over him. 

"Who are you?" asked Mr. Bellingham. 

"What do you want?" 

"My name is Jasper," was the answer, "and I 

have some information to give you." He bent 

down and hissed, " Your first wife is still alive!" 



AND OTHERS 285 

Andrew started up in obvious horror. "My 
daughter," he gasped, "my httle Hyacinth! She 
must never know." 

"Listen. Your wife is in Spain — 
[INIanager. Dont waste her. Make it some- 
where ivhere there are sharks. 

Author. It's all right, she's dead really.] 
— and she will not trouble you. Give me a thou- 
sand pounds and you shall have these"; and he 
held out a packet containing the marriage cer- 
tificate, a photograph of Jessie's father dipping a 
sheep, a receipted bill for a pair of white gloves, 
size 9|, two letters signed "Your own loving little 
Andy Pandy," and a peppermint with "Jess" 
on it in pink. " Once these are locked up in your 
safe, no one need ever know that you were mar- 
ried in Cornwall twenty-five j^ears ago." 

Without a moment's hesitation Mr. Bellingham 
took a handful of bank notes from his pocket- 
book, and the exchange was made. At all costs 
he must preserve his little Hyacinth from shame. 
Now she need never know. With a forced smile 
he bowed Jasper out, placed the packet in his safe 
and returned to his desk. 

But his mysterious visitor was not done with 
yet. As soon as the door had closed behind him 
Jasper re-entered softly, drugged Andrew hastily, 
and took possession again of the compromising 
documents. By the time Mr. Bellingham had 
regained his senses the thief was away. A hue- 
and-cry was raised, police whistles were blown. 



286 THE SUNNY SIDE 

and Richard Harrington, Mr. Bellingham's private 
secretary, was smartly arrested. 

At the trial things looked black against Richard. 
He was poor and he was in love with Hyacinth; 
the chain of evidence was complete. In spite of 
his impassioned protest from the dock, in spite of 
Hyacinth's dramatic swoon in front of the solici- 
tor's table, the judge with great solenmity passed 
sentence of twenty years' penal servitude. A 
loud "Hear, hear" from the gallery rang through 
the court, and, looking up, Mr. Bellingham 
caught the sardonic eye of the mysterious Jasper. 



II 

Richard had been in prison a month before the 
opportunity for his escape occurred. For a month 
he had been hewing stone in Portland, black 
despair at his heart. Then, like lightning, he 
saw his chance and took it. The warders were 
off guard for a moment. Hastily lifting his 
pickaxe 

[Manager. Sorry, but ifs a spade in the only 
prison film we've got.] 

Hastily borrowing a spade from a comrade who 
was digging potatoes, he struck several of his 
gaolers down, and, dodging the shots of others 
who hurried to \he scene, he climbed the prison 
wall and dashed for freedom. 

Reaching Wej^mouth at nightfall, he made his 
way to the house which Hyacinth had taken in 



AND OTHERS 287 

order to be near him, and, suitably disguised, 
travelled up to London with her in the powerful 
motor which she had kept ready. "At last, my 
love, we are together," he murmured as they 
neared Wimbledon. But he had spoken a moment 
too soon. An aeroplane swooped down upon 
them, and Hyacinth was snatched from his arms 
and disappeared with her captors into the clouds. 



ni 

Richard's first act on arriving in London was to 
go to Mr. Bellingham's house. Andrew was out, 
but a note lying on his study carpet, ^^ Meet me at 
the Old Windmill to-night," gave him a clue. On 
receipt of this note Andrew had gone to the ren- 
aezvous, and it was no surprise to him when Jas- 
per stepped out and offered to sell him a packet 
containing a marriage certificate, a photograph of 
an old gentleman dipping a sheep, a peppermint 
lozenge with "Jess" on it, and various other docu- 
ments for a thousand pounds. 

"You villain," cried Andrew, "even at the trial 
I suspected you," and he rushed at him fiercely. 

A desperate struggle ensued. Breaking free 
for a moment from the vice-like grip of the other, 
Jasper leapt with the spring of a panther at one 
of the sails of the windmill as it came round, and 
was whirled upwards; with the spring of another 
panther, Andrew leapt on to the next sail and was 
Tvhirled after him. At that moment the wind 



288 THE SUNNY SIDE 

dropped, and the combatants were suspended in 
mid-air. 

It was upon this terrible scene that Richard 
arrived. Already a crowd was collecting; and, 
though at present it did not seem greatly alarmed, 
feeling convinced that it was only assisting at 
another cinematograph rehearsal, its suspicions 
might at any moment be aroused. With a shout 
he dashed into the mill. Seeing him coming Jas- 
per dropped his revolver and slid down the sail into 
the window. In a moment he reappeared at the 
door of the mill with Hyacinth under his arm. 
"Stop him!" cried Richard from underneath a 
sack of flour. It was no good. Jasper had leapt 
with his fair burden upon the back of his mustang 
and was gone. ... 

The usual pursuit followed. 



IV 

It was the gala night at the Royal Circus. 
Ricardo Harringtoni, the wonderful new acrobat 
of whom everybody was talking, stood high above 
the crowd on his platform. His marvellous per- 
formance on the swinging horizontal bar was 
about to begin. Richard Harrington (for it was 
he) was troubled. Since he had entered on his 
new profession — as a disguise from the police who 
were still searching for him — he had had a vague 
suspicion that the lion-tamer was dogging him. 
Who was the lion-tamer? Could it be Jasper.? 



AND OTHERS 289 

At that moment the band struck up and Richard 
leapt Hghtly on to the swinging bar. With a 
movement full of grace he let go of the bar and 
swung on to the opposite platform. And then, 
even as he was in mid-air, he realized what was 
happening. 

Jasper had let the lion loose! 

It was ivaiting for him. 

With a gasping cry Ricardo Harringtoni fainted. 



When he recovered consciousness, Richard found 
himself on the s.s. "Boracic," which was forging 
her way through the 

[Manager. Somewhere where there are sharks.] 
— the Indian Ocean. Mr. Bellingham was bathing 
his forehead with cooling drinks. 

"Forgive me, my boy," said Mr. Bellingham, 
"for the wrong I did you. It was Jasper who 
stole the compromising documents. He refuses 
to give them back unless I let him marry Hyacinth. 
What can I do.?" 

"Where is she.^^" asked Richard. 

"Hidden away no one knows where. Find her, 
get back the documents for me, and she is yours." 

At that moment a terrible cry rang through the 
ship, "Man overboard!" Pushing over Mr. Bel- 
lingham and running on deck, Richard saw that 
a woman and her baby were battling for life in the 
shark-infested waters. In an instant he had 



290 THE SUNNY SIDE 

plunged in and rescued them. As they were 
dragged together up the ship's side he heard her 
murmur, "Is httle Jasper safe?" 

"Jasper?" cried Richard. 

"Yes, called after his daddy." 

"Where is daddy now?" asked Richard 
hoarsely. 

"In America." 

"Can't you see the likeness?" whispered Rich- 
ard to Mr. Bellingham. "It must be. The vil- 
lain is married to another. But now I will pursue 
him and get back the papers." And he left the 
boat at the next port and boarded one for America. 

The search through North and South America 
for Jasper was protracted. Accompanied some- 
times by a band of cowboys, sometimes by a tribe 
of Indians, Richard scoured the continent for 
his enemy. There were hours when he would 
rest awhile and amuse himself by watching the 
antics of the common mosquito [Manager. 
Good!] or he would lie at full length and gaze at a 
bud bursting into flower. [Manager. Excel- 
lent!] Then he would leap on to his steed and 
pursue the trail relentlessly once more. 

One night he was dozing by his camp-fire, when 
he was awakened roughly by strong arms around 
his neck and Jasper's hot breath in his ear. 

"At last!" cried Jasper, and, knocking Richard 
heavily on the head with a boot, he picked up his 
unconscious enemy and carried him to a tributary 
of the Amazon noted for its alligators. Once 



AND OTHERS 291 

there he tied him to a post in mid-stream and rode 
hastily off to the nearest town, where he spent 
the evening witnessing the first half of "The Mer- 
chant of Venice." [Manager. Splejidid!] But 
in the morning a surprise awaited him. As he was 
proceeding along the top of a lonely cliff he was 
confronted suddenly by the enemy whom he had 
thought to kill. 

"Richard!" he cried, "escaped again!" 

"Now, Jasper, I have you." 

With a triumphant cry they rushed at each 
other; a terrible contest ensued; and then Jas- 
per, with one blow of his palm, hurled his adver- 
sary over the precipice. 



* VI 

How many times the two made an end of each 
other after this the pictures will show. Some- 
times Jasper sealed Richard in a barrel and pushed 
him over Niagara; sometimes Richard tied Jasper 
to a stake and set light to him; sometimes they 
would both fall out of a balloon together. But 
the day of reckoning was at hand. 

[Manager. Weve only got the Burning House 
and the 1913 Derby left. 

Author. Right.] 

It is the evening of the 3rd of June. A cry 
rends the air suddenly, whistles are blowing, there 
is a rattling of horses' hoofs. "Fire! Fire!" 
Richard, who was passing Soho Square at the 



292 THE SUNNY SIDE 

time, heard the cry and dashed into the burning 
house. In a room full of smoke he perceived a 
cowering woman. Hyacinth! To pick her up 
was the work of a moment, but how shall he save 
her? Stay! The telegraph wire! His training at 
the Royal Circus stood him in good stead. Tread- 
ing lightly on the swaying wire he carried Hya- 
cinth across to the house opposite. 

"At last, my love," he breathed. 

"But the papers," she cried. "You must get 
them, or father will not let you marry me." 

Once more he treads the rocking wire; once 
more he re-crosses, with the papers on his back. 
Then the house behind him crumbles to the 
ground, with the wicked Jasper in its ruins. . . . 

"Excellent," said Mr. Bellingham d.t dinner 
that evening. "Not only are the papers here, 
but a full confession by Jasper. My first wife was 
drowned all the time; he stole the documents 
from her father. Richard, my boy, when the 
Home Secretary knows everything he will give 
you a free pardon. And then you can marry my 
daughter." 

At these words Hyacinth and Richard were 
locked in a close embrace. On the next day they 
all went to the Derby together. 



AND OTHERS 293 



THE FATAL GIFT 

PEOPLE say to me sometimes, "Oh, you 
know Woolman, don't you?" I acknowl- 
edge that I do, and, after the silence that 
alwaj^s ensues, I add, "If you want to say any- 
thing against him, please go on." You can al- 
most hear the sigh of relief that goes up. "I 
thought he was a friend of yours," they say cheer- 
fully. "But, of course, if " and then they 

begin. 

I think it is time I explained my supposed friend- 
ship for Ernest Merrowby Woolman — confound 
him. 

The affair began in a taxicab two years ago. 
Andrew had been dining with me that night; we 
walked out to the cab-rank together; I told the 
driver where to go, and Andrew stepped in, waved 
good-bye to me from the window, and sat down 
suddenly upon something hard. He drew it from 
beneath him, and found it was an extremely mas- 
sive (and quite new) silver cigar-case. He put 
it in his pocket with the intention of giving it to the 
driver when he got out, but quite naturally for- 
got. Next morning he found it on his dressing- 
table. So he put it in his pocket again, meaning 
to leave it at Scotland Yard on his way to the 
City. 

Next morning it was on his dressing-table again. 



294 THE SUNNY SIDE 

This went on for some days. After a week or 
so Andrew saw that it was hopeless to try to get a 
cigar-case back to Scotland Yard in this casual 
sort of way; it must be taken there deliberately 
by somebody who had a morning to spare and 
was willing to devote it to this special purpose. 
He placed the case, therefore, prominently on a 
small table in the dining-room to await the occa- 
sion; calling also the attention of his family to 
it, as an excuse for an outing when they were not 
otherwise engaged. 

At times he used to say, "I must really take that 
cigar-case to Scotland Yard to-morrow." 

At other times he would say, "Somebody must 
really take that cigar-case to Scotland Yard 
to-day." 

And so the weeks rolled on. . . . 

It was about a year later that I first got mixed 
up with the thing. I must have dined with the 
Andrews several times without noticing the cigar- 
case, but on this occasion it caught my eye as we 
wandered out to join the ladies, and I picked it 
up carelessly. Well, not exactly carelessly; it 
was too heavy for that. 

"Why didn't you tell me," I said, "that you 
had stood for Parliament and that your support- 
ers had consoled you with a large piece of plate? 
Hallo, they've put the wrong initials on it. How 
unbusiness-like. ' ' 

"Oh, that?'' said Andrew. "Is it still there?" 

"Why not? It's quite a solid little table. But 



AND OTHERS 295 

you haven't explained why your constituents, 
who must have seen your name on hundreds of 
posters, thought your initials were E.M.W." 

Andrew explained. 

"Then it isn't yours at all?" I said in amaze- 
ment. 

"Of course not." 

"But, my dear man, this is theft. Stealing by 
finding, they call it. You could get" — I looked 
at him almost with admiration — "you could get 
two years for this"; and I weighed the cigar-case 
in my hand. "I believe you're the only one of 
my friends who could be certain of two years," 
I went on musingly. "Let's see, there's " 

"Nonsense," said Andrew uneasily. "But still, 
perhaps I'd better take it back to Scotland Yard 
to-morrow." 

"And tell them you've kept it for a year.f* 
They'd run you in at once. No, what you want 
to do is to get rid of it without their knowledge. 
But how— that's the question. You can't give 
it away because of the initials." 

"It's easy enough. I can leave it in another 
cab, or drop it in the river." 

"Andrew, Andrew," I cried, "you're determined 
to go to prison! Don't you know from all the 
humorous articles you've ever read that, if you 
try to lose anything, then you never can.f* It's one 
of the stock remarks one makes to women in the 
endeavour to keep them amused. No, you must 
think of some more subtle way of disposing of it." 



296 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"I'll pretend it's yours," said Andrew more 
subtly, and he placed it in my pocket. 

"No, you don't," I said. "But I tell you what 
I will do. I'll take it for a week and see if I can get 
rid of it. If I can't, I shall give it you back and 
wash my hands of the whole business — except, of 
course, for the monthly letter or whatever it is 
they allow you at the Scrubbs. You may still 
count on me for that." 

And then the extraordinary thing happened. 
The next morning I received a letter from a 
stranger, asking for some simple information 
which I could have given him on a post-card. And 
so I should have done — or possibly, I am afraid, 
have forgotten to answer at all — but for the way 
that the letter ended up. 

** Yours very truly, 

Ernest M. Woolman." 

The magic initials t It was a chance not to be 
missed. I wrote enthusiastically back and asked 
him to lunch. 

He came. I gave him all the information he 
wanted, and more. Whether he was a pleasant 
sort of person or not I hardly noticed; I was so 
very pleasant myself. 

He returned my enthusiasm. He asked me to 
dine with him the following week. A little party 
at the Savoy — his birthday, you know. 

I accepted gladly. I rolled up at the party 



AND OTHERS 297 

with my little present ... a massive silver 
cigar-case . . . suitably engraved. 

So there you are. He clings to me. He seems 
to have formed the absurd idea that I am fond of 
him. A few months after that evening at the 
Savoy he was married. I was invited to the wed- 
ding — confound him. Of course I had to live up 
to my birthday present; the least I could do was 
an enormous silver cigar-box (not engraved), 
which bound me to him still more strongly. 

By that time I realized that I hated him. He 
was pushing, familiar, everything that I disliked. 
All my friends wondered how I had become so 
intimate with him. . . . 

Well, now they know. And the original 
E.M.W., if he has the sense to read this, also 
knows. If he cares to prosecute Ernest Merrowby 
Woolman for being in possession of stolen goods, 
I shall be glad to give him any information. 
Woolman is generally to be found leaving my 
rooms at about 6.30 in the evening, and a smart 
detective could easily nab him as he steps out. 



298 THE SUNNY SIDE 



A MIDSUMMER MADNESS 

THE girl who shared Herbert's meringue at 
dinner (a brittle one, which exploded just 
as he was getting into it) was kind and 
tactful. 

"It doesn't matter a bit," she said, removing 
fragments of shell from her lap; and, to put him 
at his ease again, went on "Are you interested 
in little problems at all?" 

Herbert, who would have been interested even 
in a photograph album just then, emerged from 
his apologies and swore that he was. 

"We're all worrying about one which Father 
saw in a paper. I do wish you could solve it for 
us. It goes like this." And she proceeded to 
explain it. Herbert decided that the small piece 
of meringue still in her hair was not worth men- 
tioning, and he listened to her with interest. 

On the next morning I happened to drop in at 
Herbert's oflBce. . . . And that, in short, is how 
I was entangled in the business. 

"Look here," said Herbert, "you used to be 
mathematical; here's something for you." 

"Let the dead past bury its dead," I implored. 
"I am now quite respectable." 

"It goes like this," he said, ignoring my appeal. 

He then gave me the problem, which I hand on 
to you. 



AND OTHERS 299 

"A subaltern riding at the rear of a column of 
soldiers trotted up to the captain in front and 
challenged him to a game of billiards for half a 
crown a side, the loser to pay for the table. Hav- 
ing lost, he played another hundred, double or 
quits, and then rode back, the column by this 
time having travelled twice its own length, and 
a distance equal to the distance it would have 
travelled if it had been going in the other direction. 
What was the captain's name?" 

Perhaps I have not got it quite right, for I have 
had an eventful week since then; or perhaps 
Herbert didn't get it quite right; or perhaps the 
girl with the meringue in her hair didn't get it 
quite right; but anyhow, that was the idea 
of it. 

"And the answer," said Herbert, "ought to be 
'four cows,' but I keep on making it 'eight and 
tuppence.' Just have a shot at it, there's a good 
fellow. I promised the girl, you know." 

I sat down, worked it out hastily on the back 
of an envelope, and made it a yard and a half. 

"No," said Herbert; "I know it's 'four cows/ 
but I can't get it." 

"Sorry," I said, "how stupid of me; I left out 
the table-money." 

I did it hastily again and made it three minutes 
twenty-five seconds. 

"It is difficult, isn't it?" said Herbert. "I 
thought, as you used to be mathematical and as 
I'd promised the girl " 



300 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Wait a moment," I said, still busy with my 
envelope. "I forgot the subaltern. Ah, that's 
right. The answer is a hundred and twenty-five 
men. . . . No, that's wrong — I never doubled 
the half-crown. Er — oh, look here, Herbert, I'm 
rather busy this morning. I'll send it to you." 

"Right," said Herbert. "I know I can depend 
on you, because you're mathematical." And he 
opened the door for me. 

I had meant to do a very important piece of 
work that day, but I couldn't get my mind off 
Herbert's wretched problem. Happening to see 
Carey at teatime, I mentioned it to him. 

"Ah," said Carey profoundly. "H'm. Have 
you tried it with an 'a;'?" 

"Of course." 

"Yes, it looks as though It wants a bit of an 
'x' somewhere. You stick to it with an '.t' and 
you ought to do it. Let 'x' be the subaltern — 
that's the way. I say, I didn't know you were 
interested in problems." 

"Well " 

"Because I've got rather a tricky chess prob- 
lem here I can't do." He produced his pocket 
chess-board. "White mates in four moves." 

I looked at it carelessly. Black had only left 
himself with a Pawn and a King, while White 
had a Queen and a couple of Knights about. 
Now, I know very little about chess, but I do 
understand the theory of chess problems. 

"Have you tried letting the Queen be taken by 



AND OTHERS 301 

Black's pawn, then sacrificing the Knights, and 
finally mating him with the King alone?" 

"Yes," said Carey. 

Then I was baffled. If one can't solve a chess 
problem by starting off with the most unlikely- 
looking thing on the board, one can't solve it at 
all. However, I copied down the position and 
said I'd glance at it. . . . At eleven that night 
I rose from my glance, decided that Herbert's 
problem was the more immediately pressing, and 
took it to bed with me. 

I was lunching with William next day, and I 
told him about the subaltern. He dashed at it 
lightheartedly and made the answer seventeen. 

"Seventeen what.f^" I said. 

"Well, whatever we're talking about. I think 
you'll find it's seventeen all right. But look here, 
my son, here's a golf problem for you. A is play- 
ing B. At the fifth hole A falls off the tee into a 
pond " 

I forget how it went on. 

When I got home to dinner, after a hard day 
with the subaltern, I found a letter from Norah 
waiting for me. 

"I hear from Mr. Carey," she wrote, "that 
you're keen on problems. Here's one I have cut 
out of our local paper. Do have a shot at it. 
The answer ought to be eight miles an hour." 

Luckily, however, she forgot to enclose the 
problem. For by this time, what with Herbert's 
subaltern, Carey's pawn, and a cistern left me 



302 THE SUNNY SIDE 

by an uncle who was dining with us that night, 
I had more than enough to distract me. 

And so the business has gone on. The news 
that I am preparing a collection of interesting and 
tricky problems for a new "Encyclopaedia" has 
got about among my friends. Everybody who 
writes to me tells me of a relation of his who has 
been shearing sheep or rowing against the stream 
or dealing himself four aces. People who come to 
tea borrow a box of wooden matches and beg me 
to remove one match and leave a perfect square. 
I am asked to do absurd things with pennies. . . . 
^ Meanwhile Herbert has forgotten both the prob- 
lem and the girl. Three evenings later he shared 
his Hollandaise sauce with somebody in yellow 
(as luck would have it) and she changed the sub- 
ject by wondering if he read Dickens. He is now 
going manfully through "Bleak House" — a chap- 
ter a night — ^and when he came to visit me to-day 
he asked me if I had ever heard of the man. 

However, I was not angry with him, for I had 
just made it come to "three cows." It is a cow 
short, but it is nearer than I have ever been be- 
fore, and I think I shall leave it at that. Indeed, 
both the doctor and the nurse say that I had 
better leave it at that. 



AND OTHERS 808 

TO THE DEATH 

{In the Twentieth Century manner) 

CAULIFLOWER! " shrieked Gaspard Volau- 
vent across the little table in the estaminet. 
His face bristled with rage. 

"Serpent!" replied Jacques Rissole, bristling 
with equal dexterity. 

The tw^o stout little men glared ferociously at 
each other. Then Jacques picked up his glass 
and poured the wine of the country over his 
friend's head. 

"Drown, serpent!" he said magnificently. He 
beckoned to the waiter. "Another bottle," he 
said. "My friend has drunk all this." 

Gaspard removed the wine from his whiskers 
with the local paper and leant over the table 
towards Jacques. 

"This must be wiped out in blood," he said 
slowly. "You understand.'^" 

"Perfectly," replied the other. "The only 
question is whose." 

"Name your weapons," said Gaspard Volau- 
vent grandly. 

"Aeroplanes," replied Jacques Rissole after a 
moment's thought. 

"Bah! I cannot fly." 

"Then I win," said Jacques simply. 



304 THE SUNNY SIDE 

The other looked at him in astonishment. 

"What! You fly?" 

"No; but I can learn." 

"Then I will learn too," said Gaspard with 
dignity. "We meet — in six months?" 

" Good." Jacques pointed to the ceiling, "Say 
three thousand feet up." 

"Three thousand four hundred," said Gaspard 
for the sake of disagreeing. 

"After all, that is for our seconds to arrange. 
My friend Epinard of the Roullens Aerodrome 
will act for me. He will also instruct me how to 
bring serpents to the ground." 

"With the idea of cleansing the sky of cauli- 
flowers," said Gaspard, "I shall proceed to the 
flying-ground at Dormancourt; Blanchaille, the 
instructor there, will receive your friend." 

He bowed and walked out. 

Details were soon settled. On a date six 
months ahead the two combatants would meet 
three thousand two hundred feet above the little 
town in which they lived, and fight to the death. 
In the event of both crashing, the one who crashed 
last would be deemed the victor. It was Gas- 
pard's second who insisted on this clause; Gas- 
pard himself felt that it did not matter greatly. 

The first month of instruction went by. At 
the end of it Jacques Rissole had only one hope. 
It was that when he crashed he should crash on 
some of Gaspard's family. Gaspard had no hope, 
but one consolation. It was that no crash could 



AND OTHERS 305 

involve his stomach, which he invariably left 
behind him as soon as the aeroplane rose. 

At the end of the second month Gaspard wrote 
to Jacques. 

"My friend," he wrote, "the hatred of you 
which I nurse in my bosom, and which fills me 
with the desire to purge you from the sky, is in 
danger of being transferred to my instructor. 
Let us therefore meet and renew our enmity." 

Jacques Rissole wrote back to Gaspard. 

"My enemy," he wrote, "there is nobody in the 
whole of the Roullens Aerodrome whom I do not 
detest with a detestation beside which my hatred 
for you seems as maudlin adoration. This is 
notwithstanding the fact that I make the most 
marvellous progress in the art of flying. It is 
merely something in their faces which annoys me. 
Let me therefore see yours again, in the hope that 
it will make me think more kindly of theirs." 

They met, poured wine over each other and 
parted. After another month the need of a further 
stimulant was felt. They met again, and agreed 
to insult each other weekly. -j 

On the last day of his training Gaspard spoke 
seriously to his instructor. ] 

"You see that I make nothing of it," he said. 
"My thoughts are ever with the stomach that I 
leave behind. Not once have I been in a position 
to take control. How then can I fight .f* My 
friend, I arrange it all. You shall take my 
place." 



306 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Is that quite fair to Rissole?" asked Blan- 
chaille doubtfully. 

"Do not think that I want you to hurt him. 
That is not necessary. He will hurt himself. 
Keep out of his way until he has finished with 
himself, and then fly back here. It is easy." 

It seemed the best way; indeed the only way. 
Gaspard Volauvent could never get to the ren- 
dezvous alone, and it would be fatal to his honour 
if Jacques arrived there and found nobody to 
meet him. Reluctantly Blanchaille agreed. 

At the appointed hour Gaspard put his head 
cautiously out of his bedroom window and gazed 
up into the heavens. He saw two aeroplanes 
straight above him. At the thought that he 
might have been in one of them he shuddered 
violently. Indeed, he felt so unwell that the 
need for some slight restorative became pressing. 
He tripped off to the estaminet. 

It was empty save for one table. Gaspard 
walked towards it, hoping for a little conversa- 
tion. The occupant lowered the newspaper from 
in front of his face and looked up. 

It was too much for Gaspard. 

"Coward!" he shrieked. 

Jacques, who had been going to say the same 
thing, hastily substituted "Serpent!" 

"I know you," cried Gaspard. "You send your 
instructor up in your place. Poltroon!" 

Jacques picked up his glass and poured the 
wine of the country over his friend's head. 



AND OTHERS 307 

"Dro^Ti, serpent," he said magnificently. He 
beckoned to the waiter. "Another bottle," he 
said. "My friend has drunk all this." 

Gaspard removed the wine from his whiskers 
with Jacques' paper, and leant over him. 

"This must be wiped out in blood," he said 
slowly. "Name your weapons." 

"Submarines," said Jacques after a moment's 
thought. 



308 THE SUNNY SIDE 



THE HANDICAP OF SEX 

I FOUND myself In the same drawing-room 
with Anne the other day, so I offered her one 
of my favourite sandwiches. (I hadn't seen 
her for some time, and there were plenty in the 
plate.) 

"If you are coming to talk to me," she said, 
"I think I had better warn you that I am a Bol- 
shevist." 

"Then you won't want a sandwich," I said 
gladly, and I withdrew the plate. 

"I suppose," said Anne, "that what I really 
want is a vote." 

"Haven't you got one? Sorry; I mean, of course 
you haven't got one." 

"But it isn't only that. I want to see the whole 
position of women altered. I want to see " 

I looked round for her mother. 

"Tell me," I said gently; "when did this come 
over you?" 

"In the last few weeks," said Anne. "And I 
don't wonder." 

I settled down with the sandwiches to listen. 

Anne first noted symptoms of it at a luncheon- 
party at the beginning of the month. She had 
asked the young man on her right if she could 



AND OTHERS S09 

have some of his salt, and as he passed it to her 
he covered up any embarrassment she might be 
feeHng by saying genially, "Well, and how long 
is this coal strike going to last?" 

"I don't know," said Anne truthfully. 

"I suppose you're ready for the Revolution? 
The billiard-room and all the spare bedrooms well 
stocked?" 

Anne saw that this was meant humorously, and 
she laughed. 

"I expect we shall be all right," she said. 

"You'll have to give a coal-party, and invite 
all your friends. 'Fire, 9 — 12.'" 

"What a lovely idea!" said Anne, smiling from 
sheer habit. "Mind you come." She got her 
face straight again with a jerk and turned to the 
solemn old gentleman on her other side. 

He was ready for her. 

"This is a terrible disaster for the country, this 
coal strike," he said. 

"Isn't it?" said Anne; and feeling that that 
was inadequate, added, "Terrible!" 

"I don't know what's happening to the 
country." 

Anne crumbled her bread, and having reviewed 
a succession of possible replies, each more fatuous 
than the last, decided to remain silent. 

"Everything will be at a standstill directly," 
her companion went on. "Already trade 13 
leaving the country. America " 

" I suppose so," said Anne gloomily. 



310 THE SUNNY SIDE 

*'Once stop tlie supplies of coal, you see, and 
you drain the life-blood of the country." 

"Of course," said Anne, and looked very serious. 

After lunch an extremely brisk little man took 
her in hand. 

"Have you been studying this coal strike 
question at all?" he began. 

"I read the papers," said Anne. 

"Ah, but you don't get it there. They don't 
tell you — they don't tell you. Now I know a man 
who is actually in it, and he says — and he knows 
this for a fact — that from the moment when the 
first man downed tools — from the very moment 
when he downed tools ..." 

Anne edged away from him nervously. Her 
face had assumed an expression of wild interest 
which she was certain couldn't last much longer. 

"Now, take coal at the pit's mouth," he went 
on — "at the pifs mouth" — he shook a forefinger 
at her — "at the pifs mouth — and I know this 
for a fact — ^the royalties, the royalties are " 

"It's awful," said Anne. "I know" 

She went home feeling a little disturbed. 
There was something in her mind, a dim sense of 
foreboding, which kept casting its shadow across 
her pleasanter thoughts; "Just as you feel," she 
said, "when you know you've got to go to the 
dentist." But they had a big dinner-party that 
evening, and Anne, full of the joy of life, was not 
going to let anything stand in the way of her 
enjoyment of it. 



AND OTHERS 811 

Her man began on the stairs. 

"Well," he said, "what about the coal strike? 
When are you going to start your coal-parties? 
'Fire, 10 — 2.' They say that that's going to be 
the new rage." He smiled reassuringly at her. 
He was giving the impression that he could have 
been very, very serious over this terrible business, 
but that for her sake he was wearing the mask. 
In the presence of women a man must make light 
of danger. 

Anne understood then what was troubling her; 
and as, half-way through dinner, the man on her 
other side turned to talk to her, she shot an urgent 
question at him. At any cost she must know 
the worst. 

"Hoiv long will the strike last?" she said 
earnestly. "That's just what I was going to ask 
you," he said. "I fear it may be months." 

Anne sighed deeply. 



I took the last sandwich and put down the plate. 

"And that," said Anne, "was three weeks ago." 

"It has been the same ever since?" I asked, 
beginning on a new plate. 

"Every day. I'm tired of it. I shrink from 
every new man I meet. I wait nervously for the 
word 'coal,' feeling that I shall scream when it 
comes. Oh, I want a vote or something. I 
don't know what I want, but I hate men! Why 
should they think that everything they say to us 



312 THE SUNNY SIDE 

is funny or clever or important? Why should 
they talk to us as if we were children? Why should 
they take it for granted that it's our duty to 
listen always?" 

I rose with dignity. Dash it all, who had been 
doing the listening for the last half -hour? 

"You are run down," I said. "What you want 
is a tonic." 

Quite between ourselves, though, I really 
think 

But no. We men must stick together. 



AND OTHERS S13 



THE LEGEND OF HI-YOU 



IN the days of Good King Carraway (dead 
now, poor fellow, but he had a pleasant time 
while he lasted) there lived a certain swine- 
herd commonly called Hi- You. It was the duty 
of Hi- You to bring up one hundred and forty-one 
pigs for his master, and this he did with as much 
enthusiasm as the work permitted. But there 
were times when his profession failed him. In the 
blue days of summer Princes and Princesses, Lords 
and Ladies, Chamberlains and Enchanters would 
ride past him and leave him vaguely dissatisfied 
with his company, so that he would remove the 
straw from his mouth and gaze after them, won- 
dering what it would be like to have as little 
regard for a swineherd as they. But when they 
were out of sight, he would replace the straw in 
his mouth and fall with great diligence to the 
counting of his herd and such other duties as are 
required of the expert pigtender, assuring himself 
that, if a man could not be lively with one hun- 
dred and forty-one companions, he must indeed 
be a poor-spirited sort of fellow. 

Now there was one little black pig for whom 
Hi-You had a special tenderness. Just so, he 
often used to think, would he have felt towards 



S14 THE SUNNY SIDE 

a brother if this had been granted to him. It 
was not the colour of the Httle pig nor the curli- 
ness of his tail (endearing though this was), nor 
even the melting expression in his eyes which 
warmed the swineherd's heart, but the feeling 
that intellectually this pig was as solitary among 
the hundred and forty others as Hi- You himself. 
Frederick (for this was the name which he had 
given to it) shared their food, their sleeping apart- 
ments, much indeed as did Hi- You, but he lived, 
or so it seemed to the other, an inner life of his 
own. In short, Frederick was a soulful pig. 

There could be only one reason for this: Fred- 
erick was a Prince in disguise. Some enchanter — 
it was a common enough happening in those days 
— annoyed by Frederick's father, or his uncle, or 
even by Frederick himself, had turned him into 
a small black pig until such time as the feeling 
between them had passed away. There was a 
Prince Frederick of Milvania who had disappeared 
suddenly; probably this was he. His complexion 
was darker now, his tail more curly, but the royal 
bearing was unmistakable. 

It was natural then that, having little in common 
with his other hundred and forty charges, Hi- You 
should find himself drawn into ever closer com- 
panionship with Frederick. They would talk 
together in the intervals of acorn-hunting, Fred- 
erick's share of the conversation limited to 
"Humphs," unintelligible at first, but, as the days 
went on, seeming more and more charged with 



AND OTHERS S13 

an inner meaning to HI- You, until at last he could 
interpret every variation of grunt with which his 
small black friend responded. And indeed it was 
a pretty sight to see them sitting together on the 
top of a hill, the world at their feet, discussing 
at one time the political situation of Milvania, at 
another the latest ballad of the countryside, or 
even in their more hopeful moments planning 
what they should do when Frederick at last was 
restored to public life. 

n 

Now it chanced that one morning when Frederick 
and Hi- You were arguing together in a friendly 
manner over the new uniforms of the Town Guard 
(to the colours of which Frederick took exception) 
King Carraway himself passed that way, and being 
in a good humour stood for a moment listening 
to them. 

"Well, well," he said at last, "well, well, well." 

In great surprise Hi-You looked up, and then, 
seeing that it was the King, jumped to his feet 
and bowed several times. 

"Pardon, Your Majesty," he stammered, "I 
did not see Your Majesty. I was — I was talking." 

"To a pig," laughed the King. 

"To His Royal Highness Prince Frederick of 
Milvania," said Hi-You proudly. 

"I beg your pardon," said the King; "could I 
trouble you to say that again .'^" 



316 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"His Royal Highness Prince Frederick of 
Milvania." 

"Yes, that was what it sounded Hke last 
time." 

"Frederick," murmured Hi-You in his friend's 
ear, "this is His Majesty King Carraway. He 
lets me call him Frederick," he added to the King. 

"You don't mean to tell me," said His Majesty, 
pointing to the pig, "that this is Prince Frederick?" 

"It is indeed. Sire. Such distressing incidents 
must often have occurred within Your Majesty's 
recollection." 

"They have, yes. Dear me, dear me." 

"Humph," remarked Frederick, feeling it was 
time he said something. 

"His Royal Highness says that he is very proud 
to meet so distinguished a monarch as Your 
Majesty." 

"Did he say that?" asked the King, surprised. 

"Undoubtedly, Your Majesty." 

"Very good of him, I'm sure." 

"Humph," said Frederick again. 

"He adds," explained Hi-You, "that Your 
Majesty's great valour is only excelled by the 
distinction of Your Majesty's appearance." 

"Dear me," said the King, "I thought he was 
merely repeating himself. It seems to me very 
clever of you to understand so exactly what he 
is saying." 

"Humph," said Frederick, feeling that it was 
about acorn time again. 



AND OTHERS 317 

*' His Royal Highness is kind enough to say that 
we are very old friends." 

"Yes, of course, that must make a difference. 
One soon picks it up, no doubt. But we must 
not be inhospitable to so distinguished a visitor. 
Certainly he must stay with us at the Palace. 
And you had better come along too, my man, for 
it may well be that without your aid some of His 
Royal Highness's conversation would escape us. 
Prince Frederick of Milvania — dear me, dear me. 
This will be news for Her Royal Highness." 

So, leaving the rest of the herd to look after 
itself, as it was quite capable of doing, Frederick 
and Hi- You went to the Palace. 

Now Her Royal Highness Princess Amaril was 
of an age to be married. Many Princes had 
sought her hand, but in vain, for she was as proud 
as she was beautiful. Indeed, her beauty was 
so great that those who looked upon it were 
blinded, as if they had gazed upon the sun at 
noonday — or so the Court Poet said, and he would 
not be likely to exaggerate. Wherefore Hi- You 
was filled with a great apprehension as he walked 
to the Palace, and Frederick, to whom the matter 
had been explained, was, it may be presumed, 
equally stirred within, although outwardly im- 
passive. And, as they went. Hi- You murmured 
to his companion that it was quite all right, for 
that in any event she could not eat them, the which 
assurance Frederick, no doubt, was peculiarly 
glad to receive. 



318 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Ah," said the King, as they were shown into 
the Royal Library, "that's right." He turned to 
the Princess. "My dear, prepare for a surprise." 

"Yes, Father," said Amaril dutifully. 

"This," said His Majesty dramatically, throw- 
ing out a hand, "is a Prince in disguise." 

"Which one. Father?" said Amaril. 

"The small black one, of course," said the King 
crossly; "the other is merely his attendant. Hi, 
you, what's your name?" 

The swineherd hastened to explain that His 
Majesty, with His Majesty's unfailing memory 
for names, had graciously mentioned it. 

"You don't say anything," said the King to 
his daughter. 

Princess Amaril sighed. 

"He is very handsome, Father," she said, 
looking at Hi- You. 

"Y-yes," said the King, regarding Frederick 
(who was combing himself thoughtfully behind 
the left ear) with considerable doubt. "But the 
real beauty of Prince Frederick's character does 
not lie upon the surface, or anyhow^ — er — not at 
the moment." 

"No, Father," sighed Amaril, and she looked 
at Hi- You again. 

Now the swineherd, who with instinctive good 
breeding had taken the straw from his mouth on 
entering the Palace, was a well-set-up young fel- 
low, such as might please even a Princess. 

For a little while there was silence in the Royal 



AND OTHERS 319 

Library, until Frederick realized that it was his 
turn to speak. 

"Humph!" said Frederick. 

"There!" said the King in great good humour. 
*'Now, my dear, let me tell you what that means. 
That means that His Royal Highness is delighted 
to meet so beautiful and distinguished a Princess." 
He turned to Hi- You. "Isn't that right, my 
manr 

"Perfectly correct, Your Majesty." 

"You see, my dear," said the King compla- 
cently, "one soon picks it up. Now in a few 
days " 

" Humph ! " said Frederick again. 

"What did that one mean. Father?" asked 
Amaril. 

"That meant — er— that meant — well, it's a 
little hard to put it colloquially, but roughly it 
means" — he made a gesture with his hand — "that 
we have — er — been having very charming weather 
lately." He frowned vigorously at the swineherd. 

"Exactly, Your Majesty," said Hi- You. 

"Charming weather for the time of year." 

"For the time of year, of course," said the King 
hastily. "One naturally assumes that. Well, 
my dear," he went on to his daughter, "I'm sure 
you will be glad to know that Prince Frederick 
has consented to stay with us for a little. You 
will give orders that suitable apartments are to 
be prepared." 

Yes, Father. What are suitable apartments ? ' ' 



320 THE SUNNY SIDE 

The King pulled at his beard and regarded 
Frederick doubtfully. 

"Perhaps it would be better," the Princess went 
on, looking at Hi- You, "if this gentleman " 

"Of course, my dear, of course. Naturally His 
Royal Highness would wish to retain his suite." 

"Humph!" said Frederick, meaning, I imagine, 
that things were looking up. 



Ill 



Of all the Princes who from time to time had 
visited the Court none endeared himself so rapidly 
to the people as did Frederick of Milvania. His 
complete lack of vanity, his thoughtfulness, the 
intense reserve which so obviously indicated a 
strong character, his power of listening placidly 
to even the most tedious of local dignitaries, all 
these were virtues of which previous royal visitors 
had given no sign. Moreover on set occasions 
Prince Frederick could make a very pretty speech. 
True, this was read for him, owing to a slight 
affection of the throat from which, as the Chan- 
cellor pointed out. His Royal Highness was 
temporarily suffering, but it would be couched 
n the most perfect taste and seasoned at suitable 
functions (such, for instance, as the opening of the 
first Public Baths) with a pleasantly restrained 
humour. Nor was there any doubt that the 
words were indeed the Prince's own, as dictated 



AND OTHERS 321 

to Hi- You and by him put on paper for the Chan- 
cellor. But Hi- You himself never left the Palace. 

"My dear," said the King to his daughter one 
day, "have you ever thought of marriage.'^" 

"Often, Father," said Amaril. 

"I understand from the Chancellor that the 
people are expecting an announcement on the 
subject shortly." 

"We haven't got anything to announce, have 
we.'' 

"It's a pity that you were so hasty with 
your other suitors," said the King thoughtfully. 
"There is hardly a Prince left who is in any way 
eligible." 

"Except Prince Frederick," said Amaril gently. 

The King looked at her suspiciously and then 
looked away again, pulling at his beard. 

"Of course," went on Amaril, "I don't know 
what your loving subjects would say about it." 

"My loving subjects," said the King grimly, 
"have been properly brought up. They believe — 
they have my authority for believing — that they 
are suffering from a disability of the eyesight laid 
upon them by a wicked enchanter, under which 
they see Princes as — er — pigs. That, if you 
remember, was this fellow Hi-You's suggestion. 
And a very sensible one." 

"But do you want Frederick as a son-in-law?" 

"Well, that's the question. In his present shape 
he is perhaps not quite — not quite — well, how 
shall I put it.f*" 



322 THE SUNNY SIDE 

"Not quite," suggested Amaril. 

"Exactly. At the same time I think that there 
could be no harm in the announcement of a 
betrothal. The marriage, of course, would not 
be announced until " 

"Until the enchanter had removed his spell 
from the eyes of the people.^" 

"Quite so. You have no objection to that, my 
dear?" 

"I am His Majesty's subject," said Amaril 
dutifully. 

"That's a good girl." He patted the top of her 
head and dismissed her. 

So the betrothal of His Royal Highness Freder- 
ick of Milvania to the Princess Amaril was 
announced, to the great joy of the people. And 
in the depths of the Palace Hi- You the swineherd 
was hard at work compounding a potion which, 
he assured the King, would restore Frederick to 
his own princely form. And sometimes the Prin- 
cess Amaril would help him at his work. 



IV 

A MONTH went by, and then Hi- You came to the 
King with news. He had compounded the magic 
potion. A few drops sprinkled discriminately on 
Frederick would restore him to his earlier shape, 
and the wedding could then be announced. 

"Well, my man," said His Majesty genially, 
"this is indeed pleasant hearing. We will sprinkle 



AND OTHERS 823 

Frederick to-morrow. Really, I am very much 
in your debt; remind me after the ceremony to 
speak to the Lord Treasurer about the matter." 

"Say no more," begged Hi- You. "All I ask 
is to be allowed to depart in peace. Let me have 
a few hours alone with His Royal Highness in the 
form in which I have known him so long, and then, 
when he is himself again, let me go. For it is not 
meet that I should remain here as a perpetual 
reminder to His Royal Highness of what he would 
fain forget." 

"Well, that's very handsome of you, very hand- 
some indeed. I see your point. Yes, it is bet- 
ter that you should go. But, before you go, there 
is just one thing. The people are under the im- 
pression that — er — an enchanter has — er — well, 
you remember what you yourself suggested." 

"I have thought of that," said Hi- You, who 
seemed to have thought of everything. "And I 
venture to propose that Your Majesty should 
announce that a great alchemist has been com- 
pounding a potion to relieve their blindness. A 
few drops of this will be introduced into the water 
of the Public Baths, and all those bathing therein 
will be healed." 

"A striking notion," said the King. "Indeed 
it was just about to occur to me. I will proclaim 
to-morrow a public holiday, and give orders that 
it be celebrated in the baths. Then in the even- 
ing, when they are all clean — I should say * cured* 
— we will present their Prince to them." 



324 THE SUNNY SIDE 

So it happened even as Hi- You had said, and in 
the evening the Prince, a model now of manly 
beauty, was presented to them, and they ac- 
claimed him with cheers. And all noticed how 
lovingly the Princess regarded him, and how he 
smiled upon her. 

But the King gazed upon the Prince as one 
fascinated. Seven times he cleared his throat 
and seven times he failed to speak. And the 
eighth time he said, "Your face is strangely 
familiar to me." 

"Perchance we met in Milvania," said the 
Prince pleasantly 

Now the King had never been in Milvania. 
Wherefore he still gazed at the Prince, and at 
length he said, "What has happened to that 
Hi- You fellow?" 

"You will never hear of him again," said the 
Prince pleasantly. 

"Oh!" said the King. And after that they 
feasted. 

And some say that they feasted upon roast pig, 
but I say not. And some say that Hi-You had 
planned it all from the beginning, but I say not. 
And some say that it was the Princess Amaril who 
planned it, from the day when first she saw Hi- 
You, and with them I agree. For indeed I am 
very sure that when Hi-You was a swineherd upon 
the hills he believed truly that the little black pig 
with the curly tail was a Prince. And, though 
events in the end were too much for him, I like 



AND OTHERS 325 

to think that Hi-You remained loyal to his friend, 
and that in his plush-lined sty in a quiet corner of 
the Palace grounds Frederick passed a gentle old 
age, cheered from time to time by the visits of 
Amaril's children. 



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